Archive for the 'trips down amnesia lane' Category
-image-Facebook…and the discussion continues
OK, whew. I’m not alone! And neither are you! Most of us are feeling some level of discomfort with Facebook, and I’m not referring to WordScraper and its wacky nonScrabulousness.
Many of you have seen your high school nemesis or ex pop up as either a friend request or in someone else’s friend list. You’ve felt your stomach drop or your knees weaken or maybe even a little vomit toss up on into your mouth. I don’t know…maybe someone really sucktacular found you.
Anyway, I enjoyed reading your comments but was taken aback by one from my BFF, Smitty:
Was it wrong for me – a married woman- to ask to be friends with an exboyfriend?- also married. I got a pit in my stomach when I clicked the button… so I am thinking… yes.
My God, I thought. Get a grip, Smitty! You’re obviously not over whoever this is (I have my guesses).
My mind shot to a few former boyfriends, including my first true love and a couple longish relationships post college… nope, I wouldn’t hesitate to friend my first love (the others? No interest at all. Meh.) My ‘first love’ and I are great friends. What’s the big deal?
Then, another person popped up in my head. Let’s call him Dave. Because that’s not his name. I hadn’t thought of Dave in a bit, but he was the best friend of an ex of mine. I crushed on Dave from Day 1 of meeting my boyfriend. Oops. Yeah. 10 months of oops. I should never have dated Boyfriend, since I was head over flats for his best friend.
Months after I (finally) broke up with Boyfriend, I ran into Dave downtown while out with some friends. Dave scooped me up into his tall frame, twirled me around and we excitedly caught up. When we said goodbye, my girlfriend grabbed me and said “WHY AREN’T YOU DATING HIM?” What? Dave doesn’t like me! Her eyes bugged out and she said “UM, YES HE DOES.”
Hmmm… it didn’t take long for Dave and I to start hanging out. My ex didn’t know, and we knew what we were getting into could end their friendship. We hung out in polka bars, watched tv, and took things very slowly…mainly because I was also talking and emailing a certain future husband of mine, who I’d met a couple of months before at a music concert.
A few weeks after hanging out with Dave, I realized I had to make a decision. Would I give Dave and me a chance, even though he’s very religious, and I’m not; he’s moving to the west coast, and I’m happy in the midwest? Would I give this long distance relationship with Mr. Squirrel a chance — we’d only met for the length of a music concert…but our phone calls and emails filled me with such happiness and intrigue.
You know who I picked. I picked well. And Dave? I don’t know where he’s at. I’ll be honest, I’ve Googled him several times to keep up on him. He went in a direction I wouldn’t have wanted to deal with, as admirable as it is. I’m happy for him. I’m happy for me. But when I thought of Dave, I suddenly and clearly understood what Smitty meant. I, too, had the pit in my stomach.
According to an article in the recent Good Housekeeping, Smitty ain’t talking out of her ass (this time), and we should listen to our guts. I mean, you listen to yours, and I’ll listen to mine.
In the course of searching for a lost girlfriend, the author emails her “lost love,” who is happily married, with children and also happy to have heard from the (also married) author. Before the author calls her lost love to catch up more on the past decade plus, she hesitates, and decides to talk with a developmental psychology professor who warns her not to call him. Apparently many a happy marriage have perished in this Age of Quick & Anonymous Googling.
The professor explains that some “neuroscience research suggests that early loves are encoded in the brain, the same way cocaine addiction is. Seeing that person again, talking on the phone, even e-mail triggers all those visceral memories of being young and in love.”
Cocaine addiction? NO Thank You.
Does that mean I’ll cross my ex off my Christmas list? Heck no! It definitely does mean that I’ll remember to not second guess my gut. If I get the sinking feeling that communication isn’t right, I’ll end it. If I get the yuck gut when I see an ex pop up or email me, I’ll respond briefly and with the utmost respect, but I won’t put my relationship with my husband in any sort of neurojeopardy. If it feels wrong, or if you think “I don’t think my hubby would like this,” three words for you: RESPECT THY GUT!
And maybe that means I’ll tell Smitty — Don’t Write on that Ex’s Wall, girlie girl!
*I just want to say that although it’s a time suck of RIDICULOUS proportion and yes, sometimes I do find a person from my past who I don’t care to reconnect with, I do love Facebook, and the vast majority of people I’m reconnecting with elicit wonderful, hilarious or just plain nice memories.
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
9:19 pm |
-image-Welcome to Facebook.
Allow me to re-introduce you to your insecurities.
At first I joined Facebook through a project associated with work. This was when you had to be part of a Network or school in order to join, and because it was for business, most of my contacts were work-related.
Then Facebook took off, and more and more of my friends signed on; anyone can join, which has been a blessing. I’ve reconnected with many great friends from all areas of my past. I’ve hooked many a friend on Facebook, and to those of you who will lose many hours to Wordscraper or any other crazy application, I apologize! But hey, at least we now know what each others’ kids looks like! Yay!
I’m embarrassed to admit that one feature of Facebook has me quaking in my white baggy vneck tshirt and cut off jean shorts. Oh yes. It’s like a bumpy, stinky express train back to college…or worse, high school (we couldn’t wear shorts, so let me think: Guess jeans and my big green Esprit bookbag. And don’t forget the bad perm.).
Well, anyhoo, Facebook has a feature to help people connect with others called “Discover People You May Know.” It displays in a sidebar people who you may know through their connection with another of your friends — sort of a one degree of separation.
My stomach lurched when Girl popped up on my sidebar. There she was. Someone from college, our small, small college, who got under my skin…who still gets under my skin.
She’s like the cute girl next door. Super nice, bubbly, friendly. She knew everyone and everyone’s boyfriend…not in that way, but definitely in the she wanted you to know that she was friends with your boyfriend. That she chatted with him at the party or bar. That she thinks he’s GREAT. And when relationships dissolved, as they did often in college, suddenly she was the rebound girl and she DID then know your (ex)boyfriend.
I saw her do that to several of my friends or classmates. I knew she liked my boyfriend — she made it abundantly clear — and even once said “when you guys break up, he’s mine!” haha she laughed, as she said it in front of several friends, my boyfriend and me, but she meant it.
If you hadn’t guessed it, I was majorly insecure in my relationship (ok, in almost everything), and when this boyfriend, my first love, dumped me, I was wrecked. The Girl lived in the suite next to mine, and it didn’t take long for me to overhear her gushing about hanging out with my Ex at the bar. Things happened, they didn’t last more than a hookup, and well, she moved onto other guys.
I was scarred though– maybe because the situation her habitual rebounding seemed unstoppable and was so very hurtful. She graduated, thankfully, that year.
I ran into her a few years later at a music festival in Chicago with her now husband when I was dating Mr. Squirrel. Ever perky, she inquired about my Ex, and I told her what I knew. I could tell she had no clue how hurt I was by her behavior, even though we weren’t best friends or even roommates. I think she considered me a friend…or at least she was always friendly towards me. Didn’t she realize her behavior wasn’t neighborly? Wasn’t nice? Maybe I wouldn’t have minded so much had she hooked up with my ex if she hadn’t been so forward about wanting him when I was with him. I mean, people move on. I know that. I expected him to date again (although at the time, I wanted him to re-date ME ME ME ONLY ME. I was desperate. It wasn’t pretty).
Anyway, her picture repeatedly comes up on Facebook. Would I like to add her as a Friend?
Does she see my picture and not invite me to be her friend? Might she not recognize me (definitely not my married last name)? Does she know how hurt I was? Maybe she never considered me a friend?
I don’t know. There’s a whole lot of hurt on my side still, and really…do I want her to be my friend? Reading back over this I realize through all the small talk, smiles and mutual friends, she was never my friend. Why, however, do I feel the need to possibly add her as a friend? People pleaser, anyone?
That’s college. High school is a whooollle other ballgame; one that’s still rife with insecurities. I only keep in contact with two high school friends — and one of them I just came into contact with again. My oldest and dearest won’t ever get on Facebook, but this recent re-friendship? Totally on it. I checked out her friends and sweet baby J did I get that icky high school stomach again. One of the first people I saw is a girl who came to our small school our first year in high school. I didn’t even know about her until someone asked me why the new girl hated me so much. Who in the what now?
I wanted everyone to like me, so if she didn’t like me before she even met me, then clearly, we were meant to be bitter enemies. And so that’s how it went for the rest of high school. Mature! And that’s the worst case. What about the people I just haven’t spoken to in 20 years? Do I want to reconnect? Do they want to reconnect with me? Why, after sooo many years, do I not have the strength and self-confidence to say “hi! It’s Stacy…remember me? Go Wildcats!?”
Do any of you feel this way, or again, is it only me?
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
12:48 pm |
-image-Tomorrow is my LAST DAY!
I know… Tuesdays are always a good last day, right? It’s the last day of the month, when my grant-funded position ends, which is why it’s a Tuesday; and, I don’t work Mondays. Makes sense, yes? Good.
When I told people I was leaving, several people mentioned having a goodbye party, which at our place of employment usually entails a half-assed, barely attended gathering of a good 8 awkward minutes of cake eating. A card circulates, is signed and sometimes a gift is purchased. There’s no hard and fast rules…some people who truly deserve cake and a gift, such as our recently departed temporary receptionist (who also served as a fabulous graduate assistant for two years prior) just scored a cake. It’s just bad, so I told my friends, “NO PARTY.” End of story.
The story, nevertheless, continues with the email I (hopefully accidentally) received announcing the card-passing and $30 plant purchasing. Have I told you of my green thumb before? No? That’s because I kill plants. Let’s add another notch to my Murdered Plant Belt now, since its demise is inevitable.
How will this last day compare to others? Let’s take a trip back to some memorable work departures of YesterYear…
Location: Minneapolis
Year: 2001 (maybe? memory issues)
Last Day: This departure was very bittersweet, as I was leaving not only my job, but the city and my wonderful friends to move to be with Mr. Squirrel in Chicago. Leaving the job was the easiest, but most of my bestest friends worked at the job with me, so *sob* I really had to hold it together on my last day…
And then the singing cowboy showed up at my desk. The who in the what now, you query? Oh yes, a frigging old man dressed as a cowboy. Seriously.
SEEMS AS THOUGH on of my naughtier troublemaking friends at our west coast office thought the usual send off (which, at this company, was almost always thoughtful, well-prepared and bountiful in yummy goodies) just wasn’t Stacy Enough. Oh no, something “SPECIAL” needed to be done, he thought from his cozy little cube out in SanFran…yes, I think we should chip in for a SINGING COWBOY.
Now, you may not know this about me, but I don’t enjoy being the center of attention. No really. OK, well, let me explain: I do enjoy being the center of attention on my terms, but being plunked down in the center of a growing crowd of coworkers while Cowboy Bill rambles off a (very long) (and very personalized) song about me with everyone looking at me for my reaction? Awwwful. Sweet serenity then the guy wouldn’t leave. Should I tip him? Do I have to escort him off the ranch? What’s the protocol? I just want him to giddy up on outta there and leave me to die in peace.
Honestly though, that wasn’t my weirdest last day.
So on my first job in Minneapolis, I worked a stone’s throw from the BFM. Near the BFM were some new hotels, hastily constructed for the shopping masses, and a few older hotels servicing the airport nearby. One of the oldest motels, a theme motel/”conference hall” motel, also had a kitchy diner and separate bar. I am talking BEYOND themed. I am talking Frank on Trading Spaces would d.i.e. of the kitsch. It was southwest theme…but like the old southwest…like stuffed wolves and thick lacquered tables made from the stump of an old old redwood and then more dead animals and I can’t even TELL YOU HOW CRAZY AWESOME the diner and bar were. It was so over the flipping top that it couldn’t even be offensive to natives of the southwest, cuz they probably would just drop dead of the crazy. I hearted this place because of its craziness, and unfortunately, it’s been Ramadafied since I’ve left. Snif Snif. But anyway my coworkers knew of my unwavering love of the Pow Wow Cocktail Lounge…so that must be why they decided, at 4:30 pm on my last day, to throw a black bag over my head and kidnap me.
What? Oh yes. It was like a gang beatdown initiation except that was no beating. So not really anything like a gang beatdown.
But I was tossed into the back of a coworkers car and driven around the south Minneapolis suburb in an attempt to throw off our final location, which I kept yelling had BETTER BE THE G.D. POW WOW LOUNGE! No matter how many off ramps we traversed or how many spins through the BFM parking ramp we took, I knew we’d end up sipping some weak ass drinks at my favorite dark and dirty bar. And we did. I’m still not sure why the whole kidnapping shakedown had to happen. I worked with some wacky peeps…and no, the guy who wore Big Dog pajamas to work and had a minor cocaine problem did not touch me through this escapade, although I’m sure he got tanked at the bar and ended up further staining his already stained tshirt.
So could tomorrow be any crazier than these two fine examples of how to send off a beloved employee? Time will tell…
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
12:02 pm |
-image-Sometimes, I need a cork.
For my mouth. Remember this conversation? Well, my husband’s coworker leaves early next week…and we haven’t had him over for dinner yet. I’m so bad! UGH.
We did take him apple picking with us, though — so that must count for something. And last night, Mr. Squirrel took him and another colleague (from China, who is in town for only a week), out to dinner with Jojo. With Jojo. Apparently, Jojo charmed the pantalones off of the waitress (me: “did you ask her if she ever wants to babysit?” Mr. Squirrel: “shit. No, I didn’t think of that.”). Still, they had fun.
But I don’t know what came over me. Is anyone else like this? You feel COMPELLED to have the foreigners over for dinner because it should be done? It’s the right thing to do and possibly, the tasty way to do it? Last night, when I learned they were both leaving next week, I suggested they come over for dinner.
Tomorrow and Thursday evening, Mr. Squirrel would be working late on some ‘extra’ projects that he doesn’t get paid for but OH does he love helping out the community and OH does Mrs. Squirrel try to be supportive. Friday is out because I work and get home around 6pm. Saturday, one of the two visitors returns to China. That left tonight.
Tonight. So tonight, the two nice scientists from China will be coming over for dinner.
The last time we had a Chinese-American over for dinner, it twas a disaster. It was another of Mr. Squirrel’s coworkers — an American male, and his lovely wife (Chinese-American, but came over for college/stayed) and their ahhhhdorable little girls. We liked the couple a lot (they have since move. I don’t think the reason is due to the dinner, but that hasn’t been confirmed.) and had done things socially with them before. All of this, mind you, was before Jojo.
Mr. Squirrel told me HE would cook the meal. He wanted to make pad thai.
I love Mr. Squirrel. I do. I just don’t love his pad thai. The thing is, he never cooks/soaks the rice noodles long enough, so they’re at least a portion of the pack sticks together in a huddled, crunchy craptacular mess. It’s never good. I tried a gentle reminder to let the noodles soak. And uh, we should probably make 2 packs, since 1 pack serves just barely 2 people.
Did he listen?
Ahem. Ok, so where were we?
Ah yes, so Mr. Squirrel prepared the meal, and I huddled around, entertaining and enjoying our guests’ company. Then it was time for dinner. And to my dismay, Mr. Squirrel neither soaked/cooked the noodles long enough nor put in two packs of noodles.
The reason I was particularly upset and embarrassed about the amount of food was that in one of my graduate courses, we were learning about communication across cultures and the importance of food/hosting dinners in China. According to a boatload of research, in a typical Chinese dinner party or gathering, food is the main focus, and there are specific roles guests and hosts play with one another. The host should provide MORE than enough food and continually encourage guests to eat more more more, not taking “no thank yous” or “I’m fulls” or any initial protests from the guests (who are, in turn, playing their parts by eating a little of every bountiful and colorful dish that arrives at the table while also complimenting, suggesting they are full and putting up a protest…but then carefully eating a bit of everything and taking more until FINALLY, someone pops.). Or, until several rounds of this conversation until clearly, the guest is full and the mountains of food have a noticeable dent in them.
Now, our guest would NEVER ever ever say anything to let us know that we did NOT have enough food. I think that’s taboo, too, but she must have noticed and internally cringed at the embarrassment of it all. I certainly was. I think her husband was able to squeeze out a tiny bit of seconds, but it was just a token request, as the noodles weren’t cooked through and stuck together in massive clumps. Oh people. It was NOT good.
For tonight, I’m making my grandmother’s baked beef stew recipe. I had just bought the ingredients before I suggested having them over, and it definitely serves four adults adequately. I’m not going full-out craziness with the number of dishes, etc. I mean, I realize we’re not a typical Chinese family. In fact, we’re not typical nor Chinese. I do, however, want to serve them a hearty, delicious meal that leaves them satiated and satisfied.
I’m thinking of picking up some bakery bread to go along with the beef/potatoes/carrots/celery stew. But what else? The oven will be taken from 2:25-6:15. What can I do for appetizers? Are they necessary? What about dessert? HELP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Also, wish me luck!
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
12:43 pm |
-image-She asked. I answered.
Back when I was reluctantly considering posting every single day this month, Isabel suggested I blog about my favorite outfit in high school & why. Hmmm, this is a toughie. The best part, however, is that I don’t have any high school photos at my house, so DAMN I can’t scan a picture for you.
Snap!
I’m really having trouble coming up with ONE particular outfit, and really only one repeat outfit from high school comes to mind. I’m not sure, if I could peruse ye olde wardrobe that this combo would be thee BEST one, but it’s what I got left in my deteriorating memory, so here goes:
I think this outfit debuted in my sophomore year, and it may actually be in that years school photo. The light pink cotton Esprit ribbed sweater had a mockish length neck with a button-up henley front and was baggy. The ribbing on the top half was about an inch wide, while the ribbing on the bottom half was like 1/2 inch wide. Under the sweater, I either wore a white tshirt or white turtleneck. I’d usually wear this sweater with my light colored Guess jean skirt (sweeet!), tan colored pantyhose, white socks and pink hightop Esprit leather boots. No, I’m not kidding. I loved those shoes.
The BEST of the ensemble had to be the tan pantyhose that I chose to mask my pasty legs and fool people into thinking “wow! Stacy is one hott tan goddess! I’ll pay no attention to her albinoesque face and hands!” Seriously, I thought I was hott.
Sadly, I was not.
I’m dropping labels here because they say a lot about how I dressed in middle & high school and how I decorated my room.
Most of my favorite clothes were Esprit or Benetton. Oooh I also loved Forenza from The Limited…remember that line? Sam & Libby shoes? And, I can still remember opening my first pair of Guess jeans on Christmas morning in the silver box from Jacobson’s. I think I still have my three Swatch watches, too.
Some of the store’s salespeople in other departments thought I worked in the junior department, since they saw me around the store so often. The walls of my bedroom were covered in Esprit ads and big, thick & glossy store decorations from our local Benetton (they would call me when their new displays would come in to replace the existing ones).
I’ll try and find a picture of me in that outfit. Maybe I’ll scan my yearbook pictures from high school — I actually do have those in my possession now; of course, I’m not sure where our scanner is.
Oh, and while I was at the Esprit site, what do you think of this purse? Also, will you still be my friend?
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
10:14 pm |
-image-Another Day, Another Stolen Topic
First, some business: Did anyone see Journeyman on Monday night? Cuz Bo Duke was on it, and shit man, he’s hott. You can slide across my hood anytime. Or did Luke do the sliding? Whatever. Come on over. 10-4 good buddy.
===== Back to my regularly scheduled blather:
Hi Audrey! Remember me? You gave me some awesome topics to blog about this month. You even gave me the go-ahead to copy you & Britt on this fun idea… but then you had to go and blog about bad reads forced upon you in high school, and I have to address this. Is that ok? If not…um, ok. snif snif.
Oh snap. I finished the post and hit publish. My bad.
- Hello Red Badge of Courage. Long time no see…let’s keep it that way.
- Moby Dick? Don’t call me, and I won’t call you.
- The Illiad. I don’t think this is going to work out.
- The Odyssey. We just don’t have anything in common.
- Beowulf. I can’t even understand you. Oh, I guess I can wait for the movie to premiere this Friday. Or not.
Taking a twist off of Audrey’s post, I’m going to share with you some books I put off reading for class then bedrudgingly read them only to find TA-DAH, they rocked:
The Death & Life of Great American Cities. Imagine this: me. Sophomore year in college: bad, bad hair, widening ass, idealist yet sarcastic and silly, and a weee bit cynical. I’m in an urban soc class and totally roll my eyes at the reading list. Ugh. I’m busy with my new boyfriend and ordering pizza late at night, so puh-lease, I really don’t want to read this l.a.m.e book. But then the professor teaching this class doesn’t allow for slackers, and since he’s the head of my department, I submit: FINE I’ll read it. But I’m going to make sure and mock it first. Publicly! And then, of course, I couldn’t put it down. I was reborn. A zealot. After sarcastically dissing the book to another classmate I really admired, I went to her gushing about how wrong I was. I’m glad to see that Amazon reviewers agreed– five fully colored-in little stars! Trust me on this one.
Frankenstein: After a less than stellar high school honors English grade (the “F” on my Illiad paper may have tipped me off), I waited until sophomore year (again…what’s WITH this year?) to take my first of two required English courses. I took “Intro to the Novel” with one of the more well-known profs…who hated me. I didn’t learn until the next semester why exactly she sneered at me…apparently, I was “the girl who always fell asleep in class.” You’d think I would KNOW that, but no, it was some sort of non-seizurish-Mary-Hart like response to her voice, I swear. She does have a serene, melodious voice, and I guess I didn’t realize that it would lull me to sleep each class period, so while I “thought” I was there, listening and nodding in understanding, I was really nodding off…causing sneers from the prof and snickering from my classmates. Thankfully, I was able to pull myself together to read the books, and my favorite was Shelley’s Frankenstein. Even though I’m a little no-thanks on scary stories, the stories within stories and poor, misunderstood monster (his name isn’t Frankenstein…that’s the doctor who made him) sucked me in. Give it a go.
Jane Eyre — ha! I thought I’d figured it all out… after a passable performance in the snoozefest called “Intro to the Novel” (again, not my fault! ahem!), I planned my last English requirement class for Senior Spring, and I saved my one chance at taking a Pass/Fail class for this! No more B minusesses for me, beyotch! Watch THIS! Watch me finally “get” how to write an English paper, enjoy every blasted book we read and get As on everything, which would have greatly improved my GPA had I stepped up and taken the class a normal way. SONUVA! But anyway, one of the books I was NOT looking forward to reading was this book. I’d put off reading it and when it was due in less than a week, guess who had to take a trip to Cancun to attend a conference? Oh that’d be me. I know when you think college student + Cancun + Spring Break, you think drunken debauchery, but you’d be mistaken with me, because I’m cursed. That and I was actually presenting at the conference and traveling with three other students and my advisor’s husband (long story. Short story? He wears tighty-whiteys.). Plus: I got a cold before we left; I forgot to pack underwear; my skirt fell off when I got onto a bus; I suffered a SEVERE sunburn — a burn so bad that I swelled up and my parents didn’t recognize me when I walked by them on campus. So yeah. Good times. BUT the best part of the trip? Sitting under an umbrella made of dried palm fronds, nursing my many wounds, and discovering one of the best books ever to be written. Hmmm, maybe I should move this to my nightstand for a third read? Yes!
I can’t write a simple recommendation list, can I?
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
6:16 pm |
-image-And the Lord said unto thee…LET THERE BE QUADRANTS!
Nothing like the timely release of this 3 months (plus) late quadrant, but I think I made it just in time to avoid causing a plague or locust infestation. Whew!
As you can see, this one had to do with your love/hate towards Harry Potter* (love him towards the top/ hate him towards the bottom); and, your love/hate of bagpipes… lovers of the pipes are on the right side of the quadrant & haters on the left.
This quadrant demonstrates a lovely distribution of tastes among our fair friends here at HollowSquirrel! Thirty-six of you were plotted this round. I forgot to plot my loving husband, but you would find him in the All Love, All the Time (upper right) quadrant, in fine company! Although, honestly, I had no clue he liked bagpipes. Seriously, dear?
*As you can see, I’m a lover of allll things Harry Potter, and in the beginning in the phenomenon, I, too, was a cynic. I know, hard to believe! But yes, I was. Reluctantly, I read the first book, basically to shut up my mother who repeatedly asked me if I’d yet read Harry Potter. FINE. I’LL DO IT IF YOU’LL JUST ZIP IT. Now this could have gone a bad way, such as the hairpiece for my wedding or many unfortunate perms in my younger years, that resulted from me just going along with her so as to zip her lips. But no. My mom was correct, and I loved each and every book. I hope you skeptics & haters some day give it a go and enjoy the stories. No hype necessary.
And now I must go hug my Jojo who keeps screaming “APICOCKS” for apricots.
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
4:21 pm |
-image-How Good of an Ex am I?
Last time I was home, my mom found out that a family friend would be driving out to our area and had offered to bring me things from my childhood home. My mom, a neat-freak cleaniac, jumped at this golden opportunity to rid MY closet of MY treasures and quickly insisted my dad run out to Target to buy me a big storage container for me to fill with “junk” from my closet.
Please note, most of the “junk” in my child/teenhood closet actually appears to me my mother’s textbooks and some of her seasonal clothes, but I’m suppose to ignore that. Oh yes, that stuff on the tippy top shelf — the one that no one can reach anyways — let’s start there.
I filled the container that Rubbermaid conveniently called “Revelations” with that “junk” on the top shelf which turned out to be every letter sent to me during my four years of undergrad — letters from roommates and friends over holiday breaks, colorfully lettered notes from my best friend when she studied in Madrid, thick letters back from her and other friends when I studied in Madrid, and lots of other bundles filled with who knows what (because really? I’m saving the insides for a rainy day when I feel like some major memory lane trippage) (but maybe I’ll post a couple of them?).
Also tucked away on the top shelf was a box, helpfully labeled “David’s stuff,” even though the label pointed not-so-helpfully towards the back of the closet.
Who’s David? My ex. The BIG ex. The one I dated for over 5 years from right before my sophomore year until well after we graduated. The one my mom expected me to marry. The one everyone expected me to marry. Well, everyone except me.
Don’t get me wrong. I thought I would marry him for a good 4+ years of the relationship, and this may be all for another post.
I still love David in the ‘he’s a wonderful man & was a large, positive force in my life’ kind of way. He’s happily married with three adorable children, living in England. Until his company blocked my blog, he checked my blog daily. We email a couple of times a year, and if his family ever comes to visit the states, we’re on his list for stopping points. His wife sent Jojo thee most adorable outfit after he was born, and David still remembers my mom’s birthday every single year. They’re good people.
All of his photos from college were in this big shoebox in my closet, not to mention his American high school yearbook, from when he studied overseas during high school.
I had to get these back to him. I’m not even sure he knew they were missing, but I know he will be thrilled when he gets the box.
The big ass box that I mailed last night. That cost me over FORTY-TWO FUCKING AMERICAN DOLLARS to mail.
Seriously. I think I got screwed by the ugly, bitter postal employee (oh, you know the one, the woman next to asshat R*ch.). Anyway, since when don’t they put packages on the slow boat to europe? Only air? Even if they only air ship, aren’t there over one gazillion (slight exaggeration) flights daily which could take this package for me for less money than $42 (also known as 5 homewrecker combo meals at Moe’s?)
Whatever. I heart my ex (in a completely non-threatening way to both his family & mine), and he’s worth the (exorbinant) $42 shipping charge. The laughs and fond memories he’ll get from looking through the box makes me happy just thinking about it. I can imagine him snuggled up to his wife after the kids are asleep, laughing about trips he took and his soccer teammates, giving her the play-by-play of soccer matches (sorry, Mrs. David), and flipping through the yearbook (and yes, David, your high school girlfriend’s hair was inexcusable. I still stand by my opinion.).
Some people find it odd that we keep in touch. I’ve even had people tell me I talk too much about him, but I only talk about him in larger amounts when I’m remembering college. How could I not? How could I tell stories about college without mentioning him? That’d be disingenuous to my life then and to the relationship.
I’m proud that my ex and I get along, and that our spouses have enough self-confidence and trust in our marriages to encourage our continued friendship. And when I did tell Mr. Squirrel how much that package was to mail, he didn’t bat a beautiful eyelash.
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
9:30 am |
-image-shark jizz
For the love of everything holy, people, I’m sick again. Ok, it is probably just my severe allergies acting up, but it’s still sick. See for yourself with my symptoms. First, the sore throat. Next, runny snot quickly joined the fun. Hating to be left out, my sinuses are clogging up as we speak. And the area under my nose…it’s bright red and chapped, like my kid’s ass. Kidding. I use Balmex and his ass is beautiful. But back to me… add all this to my sleep deprivation, and I’m a sorry sack of (oozing, sneezing, whining, tissues shoved up my nose) sloth. Pair this with a highly energetic and teething 7 month old, and you’ve got gooood times. Poor Jojo. I’m trying to play with him, but Mommy as a Slug or Mommy as a Speed Bump isn’t very enjoyable for him, mainly because I do still have enough effort not to let him yank out all of my hair.
On a totally different note (I know, usually my post are so well organized…), sometimes I turn on the Today Show and it’s like they’ve been reading my mind. Dr. Ferber on sleep problems in babies. Food addictions. Derek Jeter. Jojo loved Dr. Ferber. He got all the smiles. Or were they snarky smirks? Silly, Dr. Ferber… I will outlast your graduated go-in-and-soothe-the-baby plan and drive you all to the very brink of insanity and then right when you’re about to ship me off to Minneapolis or Michigan, where crazy people are clammoring for my appearance, I will reach up and give you a big wet kiss and nuzzle your neck. I love to fuck with you! Can’t you wait until I’m a teenager? weeeeee!
This picture has absolutely nothing to do with the post, but it’s one of my favorites. He’s under attack!! Beware rotund pink bears and pastel zebras! And if you squint, you can see his sleepy face in the mirror. Oh, yes, and you can also see the purple ring (bottom right) with white dots that is connected to a ribbon on the mirror. That ring is long gone, as my son ripped it off in a fit of rage one evening.
So I tried feeding Jojo (yes, new topic! Keep up with me, will you?) stage 2 macaroni & cheese again. The experts say babies can refuse a certain taste 10-15 times before they decide that they like it. So far, peas, mixed vegetables with peas and macaroni & cheese are his least favorites. This evening, however, DAMN I wish we had recorded his reaction to the mac & cheese. He was having NONE of it, but he didn’t cry, he just dry heaved and then sent it back out, down his chin. And, I cannot blame him. It looks like shark jizz. How do I know this? Am I a sharktologist? Oh yes, that’s what they’re called, I’m sure of it. Well, let’s take a trip back to 10th grade biology. Nikki*, Jack* and I are put on a team together to dissect the baby shark. At some point during the lab, Jack suggested I push on a certain exposed body part. Of the shark, people. Sick. So I did. And this stage-2-mac-&-cheese-like-substance came shooting out between Nikki & my heads and landed SPLAT on my friend Pam’s leg. Yeah. That didn’t go over too well with her or our teacher, who only heard the screaming and tears (oops. Pam was really upset.).
To this day, I cannot eat shark. But that didn’t stop me from making mac & cheese tonight.
*all names have not been changed. But at least I left off last names, right?
Posted by Mrs. Squirrel @
7:58 am |
