You read that correctly. It's not "Fear of Monsters Under My Bed" or "Fear of the Dark."
As the youngest of 3 kids (or "children" as my journalism professor used to insist because "kids" are baby goats), I was always the first one sent to bed (as it should be). So while my parents were up reading the newspaper or watching TV and my siblings were up doing homework, I would be shuffled off to my room and instructed to go to sleep.
I remember my bedtime going from 7:30 to 8:00, and I remember specifically that I could then watch "The Cosby Show." When 8:30 would roll around, I would occasionally catch the opening credits of "A Different World" before my mom would wrap up my funtime and send me to bed.
If you've ever met my parents, you know that not only are they party people, they are also not night owls. They ran a tight ship and didn't allow any tomfoolery from my siblings either, especially late at night.
And yet, when I was sent to bed at 8:00 or 8:30, I inherently felt like I was missing out on something. Something fun was happening and I was not a party to it.
Numerous times I would creep out from my room, through the house, and simply lie at the top of the basement steps where I could see the top 1/8 of the TV screen, the top of my mom's head, and my dad's arm. Why? Because I wanted to know what they were doing. I wanted to see what was happening. Even if that was nothing, I wanted to hear them doing nothing.
I would lie there, next to our cat's food dish and the potato bin, just listening until my mom would eventually grow tired of hearing me shuffle around and yell up, "Heidi Kathleen......get back into bed NOW." I thought I was stealthy and could outwit her by being quiet. Granted, I was not a bright kid. I didn't realize that every board in our floor squeaked, so she knew the exact moment I left my bedroom, and had audio traced every step. She knew how long I had been at the top of the stairs and would eventually just grow tired of wondering what I was doing up there.
Around the age of 14 or 15, I became the owner of my bedtime.
I was in high school and I would stay up until 10 doing homework for the next day. Soon it was 11. Then it was midnight. My mom would stop in to say goodnight, give me a kiss on the top of my head, and simply say, "Don't stay up too late." That, and usually, "Why do you wait so long to do this?" But I'd do my homework listening to Dee Snyder on WZZO, rocking to hairbands of the 80s while doing algebra and I'd be happy.
Sometime in high school, my friend Deege confessed she was also the last-minute paper writer and I found solace on those nights and mornings at 3 am knowing she was also probably up finishing the same assignment.
I loved those nights. At 3 am in a suburban town, you feel a sense of quiet and a sense of solace; even the people on basic TV channels seem like they're talking just to you. I would hear my parents wake up, make coffee, it's like I was seeing behind the curtain of Oz.
When I got to college, my night owl habits were encouraged. I started working for the housing staff of my dorm and when I volunteered for most of the 4 am to 6 am shifts, people were thankful. It was an odd time of day to be awake because it prevented getting a full night's sleep before the shift unless I went to bed at 8 pm (when I was still at step aerobics). And it prevented getting a full night's sleep after the shift (because I chose classes that started at 9 am).
But the night was mine. I did homework, I wrote letters, I wrote in my journal, I watched one-night stands come and go, and I watched Public Safety take out people with alcohol poisoning. It was serene and yet, I saw things happening and felt like I was part of a secret club of night owls.
My college roommate, Spank, shared a room with me for four years. For the first year, we had bunk beds and when it was bedtime, she'd pass the remote control either up to me or down to me after she watched the 11:00 news. I would still be awake and whenever she'd pass the remote control to me, it felt like "YES! I win again! I'm still up and I'm not missing anything." I'd go to sleep soon after, but it was almost always after I heard her drift off into a peaceful snooze.
The funny thing is that a few years ago, Spank confessed that this had set a pattern of sleep for her. She was so used to me going to bed after her, that when she dated someone she'd try to fall asleep before them. It comforted her knowing someone was still up. And if they went to bed before her, she would have the hardest time falling asleep.
Now I live with my boyfriend and I've noticed a similar pattern. Last night I was tired at around 10 pm. I was in bed, checking Facebook and thought, "(yawn) I'm tired. I should just go to bed." Then I noticed he was still up and doing something in our living room. I decided, "No, I'll stay up. He's still up. I'll stay up with him." Not 5 minutes later he said he was tired and decided to go to bed, which was a relief and meant I didn't have to stay up late.
I'm 32 years old and even though he was just reading comic books on his iPad, I didn't want to miss out on the excitement.
Maybe one of these days I'll realize that I AM the excitement and when I go to bed the show is over.
10.11.2012
10.01.2012
Bank of America Meets Harry Potter
Justin and I opened a safe deposit box today.
Unfortunately, due to watching too many Bourne Identity movies, we walked in thinking we'd get a retina scan, thumbprint scan, and maybe walk through a metal detector.
Instead, we walked into Bank of America, and were told to take the elevator down a floor. Ok, elevators mean extra security, right? I mean, even though we didn't get patted down yet, SURELY that's what's coming as soon as we get off the elevator.
But we get off, walk down a hallway and it's like we were transported back to 1984. Everything is weird shades of color, the art on the walls looks faded and has captions written on a typewriter. The rug under the uncomfortable chairs padded with wool is worn under the four legs. The fake flower arrangements everywhere look like they could be dusted.
So we walk over to literally, THE ONLY PERSON down there and it's some guy named (wait for it......) Stephen Austin. As in, STONE COLD Steve Austin, the wrestler. Except this guy is about 70. And has that little pool of white spittle in the corner of his mouth.
He has 3 pens, a library book, and a giant calendar on his desk next to his PC. That's it. It's like it was staged.
Seriously, it's so quiet that after we explained what we wanted, we can hear this guy's nose whistle. As he's entering all our information, he's mumbling to himself. Every. Single. Thing. that he types.
"Address? 12 Vinton St. 1-2 V-i-n-t-o-n S-t-r-e-e-t." So painful.
Then he gets out a giant binder that must've weighed 30 pounds and slams it down on the desk. Papers flutter. He gets out a rubber date stamp and stamps like 20 pieces of paperwork (HELLO. It's 2012. HOW IS THIS STUFF NOT COMPUTERIZED?)
The entire time, Justin and I were trying to hold it together.
Then I flashed him this image and he lost it.
To which he whispered, "And does Mr. Harry Potter have his key?" To which I lost it.
Unfortunately, due to watching too many Bourne Identity movies, we walked in thinking we'd get a retina scan, thumbprint scan, and maybe walk through a metal detector.
Instead, we walked into Bank of America, and were told to take the elevator down a floor. Ok, elevators mean extra security, right? I mean, even though we didn't get patted down yet, SURELY that's what's coming as soon as we get off the elevator.
But we get off, walk down a hallway and it's like we were transported back to 1984. Everything is weird shades of color, the art on the walls looks faded and has captions written on a typewriter. The rug under the uncomfortable chairs padded with wool is worn under the four legs. The fake flower arrangements everywhere look like they could be dusted.
So we walk over to literally, THE ONLY PERSON down there and it's some guy named (wait for it......) Stephen Austin. As in, STONE COLD Steve Austin, the wrestler. Except this guy is about 70. And has that little pool of white spittle in the corner of his mouth.
He has 3 pens, a library book, and a giant calendar on his desk next to his PC. That's it. It's like it was staged.
Seriously, it's so quiet that after we explained what we wanted, we can hear this guy's nose whistle. As he's entering all our information, he's mumbling to himself. Every. Single. Thing. that he types.
"Address? 12 Vinton St. 1-2 V-i-n-t-o-n S-t-r-e-e-t." So painful.
Then he gets out a giant binder that must've weighed 30 pounds and slams it down on the desk. Papers flutter. He gets out a rubber date stamp and stamps like 20 pieces of paperwork (HELLO. It's 2012. HOW IS THIS STUFF NOT COMPUTERIZED?)
The entire time, Justin and I were trying to hold it together.
Then I flashed him this image and he lost it.
To which he whispered, "And does Mr. Harry Potter have his key?" To which I lost it.
4.30.2012
3 Hack Jobs
A few Fridays ago, I left work a little early for a hair appointment. My supervisor beamed with envy, despite my argument that it was "just a trim" and "nothing fancy." She said simply, "Even just being in a salon, you get to feel a little pampered. It's nice!"
But when I left the salon a few hours later, I didn't feel pampered. I felt like a wet moron with bad hair.
As a low-maintenance person, I'm usually the one who tells her friends, "It's only hair...it'll grow out. That's the beauty of a bad haircut." And to this day, I've only had 3 haircuts that made it into the "bad haircut" book.
#1. The Perm
Ok, before you get all uppity, try to understand. I was a freshman in high school who was used to long, straight hair and all I wanted was my sister's hair. Long, wavy, and beautiful, it was chestnut infused with a hint of golden-red. I refer to my natural hair color as "honey brown" because it sounds better than "dirty blonde." But since I didn't want to color my hair, my alternative was to change the texture.
Gretchen played the role of a concerned Big Sister intent on helping her Little Sister transform from a child into a mature adolescent. She brought me to an upscale salon in her urban town rather than where I normally went -- someplace in the mall where newly-trained stylists practice their talents on house fraus and kids who typically dye their hair with Jell-O.
She went over my request for a "full-body perm" with the stylist and assured me I would not end up with an old-lady tight-curl perm. So as I sat under one of those giant bubble-helmet dryers you see in movies, images of bouncing beautiful curls floated through my mind as the acrid smell of hair solution stung my nostrils.
"This is it!" I thought. "I am going from a nobody to a somebody!" Montages of girls in movies who went from an ugly duckling to the most popular girl played over and over again.
As the stylist took the curlers out of my hair and blow-dried my new wavy mane of luxurious locks, I couldn't wait to show my mom and Gretchen. But then I caught his look of uncertainty out of the corner of my eye. Followed by another.
When he spun me around to showcase the final product, he burbled with caveats, "If you don't like it, I can...." and "If you want to come back another day and try...." I was suspect. As I toddled away, puzzled, I caught my reflection in a storefront window and thought, "But my hair...it's not bouncing...it's kind of frizzy curls...." My doubts weren't unfounded as my sister assured me it was "not bad."
The next day, as I readied myself for school, I fully recognized the scale of my hair disaster and immediately cried after stepping out of the shower. I did some troubleshooting and did the only thing that made sense. I washed and rewashed my hair about 5 times that morning, hoping I could get those wiry, unfriendly kinks out of my hair.
And while it did speed up the de-perming process (it only took a few weeks for the entire perm to fall out of my hair completely), the damage was done.
In 2nd Period science with Mr. Wallitch, Nick K. walked in and sat down next to me. I eyed him, hoping against hope I could just fly under the radar. Then he said, "WHOA....what happened to you this weekend?"
#2. The Butchered Pixie
It was 1998. The year Gwyneth Paltrow, Cameron Diaz, and Drew Barrymore all had pixie cuts. It was also the year I started college.
Determined to start fresh, I wanted to shed my old skin, leave the four years of high school spent permanently embarrassed and self-conscious behind me and emerge a confident, self-assured woman.
While I was with Harve at her uncle's beach house that summer, I spent $9 and had my medium-length Sigourney Weaver hair lopped off to transform me into a quirky, eccentric pixie cut. Or so I thought.
Instead, I was transformed into what people have called, "a butch lesbian." What I didn't realize was that women with pixie haircuts are usually dainty, bird-like, petite, even delicate. Not words typically used to describe me. Instead my physique was described as "stocky, like a softball player," "short and muscular," and my wardrobe was primarily "asexual."
When I came home from the beach house, proud of my naked neck, my dad bellowed, "JESUS, HEIDI. How much shorter are you gonna go???"
#3. The German Dutchboy
Which brings us to this month.
While I WILL confess that I used a Groupon for my haircut, I WILL NOT correlate coupon = shitty haircut. I've used Groupons for haircuts the past 4 years and I've made it out alive.
Walking into the shop I thought, "This is artsy...this place has a cool vibe...maybe this place can be my neighborhood salon..." and then I feasted my eyes on the two stylists. Both over 50, the woman most likely over 60. And I hate to be an ageist, but....let's face it, if I want a modern style a 70-year-old woman is not where I'm going to look first. If I want someone to tell me about life before the war, hey, she's my girl.
Arriving 10 minutes early, they both looked at me similar to the way deer look at you. Right before you plow into them with your Chevy. The man, who I'm pretty sure is the owner, said he was running late and had to finish the girl in the chair AND the woman after her. Well, that's just great. Thanks for recognizing my time is also valuable, you assbag. But I consoled myself saying, well, he may be running late, but at least I'm not going to get Frau Hairdo, the wrinkly thin old woman with spikey gray hair and a thick German accent.
25 minutes later, Frau calls my name. In some salons, they offer you a coffee, tea, latte, or a glass of wine. At the very least they offer you a bottle of water. This place....offered nothing. So now I'm already in a bad mood because I'm late, I have a Golden Girl working on my hair, and I'm definitely not feeling "pampered."
As she washed my hair, I prepared myself for my favorite part of a haircut. The wash, the suds, the warm water, and the head massage. But 5 seconds into it with cool water, Frau said, "Your hair....iz not in good condition....I mean....I hate to say, but....iz in pretty bad state." Well no shit. Ok, I dyed it a bunch of times and now I'm letting it grow out. I have a healthy hair mullet -- healthy on the top, dead on the bottom. Get over it. But wait! The sink is off already! Surely that can't be....why yes....she's already toweled me off. 15 seconds of cool water splashed on my head and that's her idea of a "shampoo + conditioner."
On to the cut. I explained that I wanted "just a trim."
Dragging a paddlebrush through my hair (at age 7 my mom taught me to "use a comb on wet hair") and starting at the top of my snarled mop of hair (Mom Z. also taught me to "start combing from the bottom, so by the time you get to the top, the whole bottom of your head is combed out"), she yanked and pulled my hair until I nearly had a headache. Then I heard those musical little scissors, "snip, snip" followed by, "You want an inch andda haf, two inches?" Uh, actually, no, but.....thanks so much for ALREADY CUTTING MY HAIR.
So it was that she hacked off two inches of hair. In retrospect maybe I should thank her for freeing those dead, straw-like ends off. I mean, they're going to have to get cut at some point. Then again, all the hair in my eyebrows will also fall out and replace itself, but that doesn't gear me up to shave my eyebrows either.
But at the time, I was livid. Not that she just hacked off an inch and a half more than I wanted, but also because out of the corner of my eye I saw her old pasty arms and hands SHAKING. As in, I'm-an-old-person-and-I'm-spilling-my-coffee shaking. As in, I'm-having-trouble-opening-my-Werthers-butterscotch-candy shaking.
After she finished, she half-heartedly blow-dried my hair into a style made popular by my Hollywood brother, Ricky Shroder, in his movie debut, Little Lord Fauntleroy.
So I left with my hair half-wet, my back half-soaked, and my sensibilities at half-mast.
I was livid. I was hysterical. So I did the only thing that made sense.
I went home, I reshowered and spent 20 minutes shampooing my shortened locks.
But...it's only hair....and it WILL grow out. Eventually.
But when I left the salon a few hours later, I didn't feel pampered. I felt like a wet moron with bad hair.
As a low-maintenance person, I'm usually the one who tells her friends, "It's only hair...it'll grow out. That's the beauty of a bad haircut." And to this day, I've only had 3 haircuts that made it into the "bad haircut" book.
#1. The Perm
Ok, before you get all uppity, try to understand. I was a freshman in high school who was used to long, straight hair and all I wanted was my sister's hair. Long, wavy, and beautiful, it was chestnut infused with a hint of golden-red. I refer to my natural hair color as "honey brown" because it sounds better than "dirty blonde." But since I didn't want to color my hair, my alternative was to change the texture.
Gretchen played the role of a concerned Big Sister intent on helping her Little Sister transform from a child into a mature adolescent. She brought me to an upscale salon in her urban town rather than where I normally went -- someplace in the mall where newly-trained stylists practice their talents on house fraus and kids who typically dye their hair with Jell-O.
She went over my request for a "full-body perm" with the stylist and assured me I would not end up with an old-lady tight-curl perm. So as I sat under one of those giant bubble-helmet dryers you see in movies, images of bouncing beautiful curls floated through my mind as the acrid smell of hair solution stung my nostrils.
"This is it!" I thought. "I am going from a nobody to a somebody!" Montages of girls in movies who went from an ugly duckling to the most popular girl played over and over again.
As the stylist took the curlers out of my hair and blow-dried my new wavy mane of luxurious locks, I couldn't wait to show my mom and Gretchen. But then I caught his look of uncertainty out of the corner of my eye. Followed by another.
When he spun me around to showcase the final product, he burbled with caveats, "If you don't like it, I can...." and "If you want to come back another day and try...." I was suspect. As I toddled away, puzzled, I caught my reflection in a storefront window and thought, "But my hair...it's not bouncing...it's kind of frizzy curls...." My doubts weren't unfounded as my sister assured me it was "not bad."
The next day, as I readied myself for school, I fully recognized the scale of my hair disaster and immediately cried after stepping out of the shower. I did some troubleshooting and did the only thing that made sense. I washed and rewashed my hair about 5 times that morning, hoping I could get those wiry, unfriendly kinks out of my hair.
And while it did speed up the de-perming process (it only took a few weeks for the entire perm to fall out of my hair completely), the damage was done.
In 2nd Period science with Mr. Wallitch, Nick K. walked in and sat down next to me. I eyed him, hoping against hope I could just fly under the radar. Then he said, "WHOA....what happened to you this weekend?"
#2. The Butchered Pixie
It was 1998. The year Gwyneth Paltrow, Cameron Diaz, and Drew Barrymore all had pixie cuts. It was also the year I started college.
Determined to start fresh, I wanted to shed my old skin, leave the four years of high school spent permanently embarrassed and self-conscious behind me and emerge a confident, self-assured woman.
While I was with Harve at her uncle's beach house that summer, I spent $9 and had my medium-length Sigourney Weaver hair lopped off to transform me into a quirky, eccentric pixie cut. Or so I thought.
Instead, I was transformed into what people have called, "a butch lesbian." What I didn't realize was that women with pixie haircuts are usually dainty, bird-like, petite, even delicate. Not words typically used to describe me. Instead my physique was described as "stocky, like a softball player," "short and muscular," and my wardrobe was primarily "asexual."
When I came home from the beach house, proud of my naked neck, my dad bellowed, "JESUS, HEIDI. How much shorter are you gonna go???"
#3. The German Dutchboy
Which brings us to this month.
While I WILL confess that I used a Groupon for my haircut, I WILL NOT correlate coupon = shitty haircut. I've used Groupons for haircuts the past 4 years and I've made it out alive.
Walking into the shop I thought, "This is artsy...this place has a cool vibe...maybe this place can be my neighborhood salon..." and then I feasted my eyes on the two stylists. Both over 50, the woman most likely over 60. And I hate to be an ageist, but....let's face it, if I want a modern style a 70-year-old woman is not where I'm going to look first. If I want someone to tell me about life before the war, hey, she's my girl.
Arriving 10 minutes early, they both looked at me similar to the way deer look at you. Right before you plow into them with your Chevy. The man, who I'm pretty sure is the owner, said he was running late and had to finish the girl in the chair AND the woman after her. Well, that's just great. Thanks for recognizing my time is also valuable, you assbag. But I consoled myself saying, well, he may be running late, but at least I'm not going to get Frau Hairdo, the wrinkly thin old woman with spikey gray hair and a thick German accent.
25 minutes later, Frau calls my name. In some salons, they offer you a coffee, tea, latte, or a glass of wine. At the very least they offer you a bottle of water. This place....offered nothing. So now I'm already in a bad mood because I'm late, I have a Golden Girl working on my hair, and I'm definitely not feeling "pampered."
As she washed my hair, I prepared myself for my favorite part of a haircut. The wash, the suds, the warm water, and the head massage. But 5 seconds into it with cool water, Frau said, "Your hair....iz not in good condition....I mean....I hate to say, but....iz in pretty bad state." Well no shit. Ok, I dyed it a bunch of times and now I'm letting it grow out. I have a healthy hair mullet -- healthy on the top, dead on the bottom. Get over it. But wait! The sink is off already! Surely that can't be....why yes....she's already toweled me off. 15 seconds of cool water splashed on my head and that's her idea of a "shampoo + conditioner."
On to the cut. I explained that I wanted "just a trim."
Dragging a paddlebrush through my hair (at age 7 my mom taught me to "use a comb on wet hair") and starting at the top of my snarled mop of hair (Mom Z. also taught me to "start combing from the bottom, so by the time you get to the top, the whole bottom of your head is combed out"), she yanked and pulled my hair until I nearly had a headache. Then I heard those musical little scissors, "snip, snip" followed by, "You want an inch andda haf, two inches?" Uh, actually, no, but.....thanks so much for ALREADY CUTTING MY HAIR.
So it was that she hacked off two inches of hair. In retrospect maybe I should thank her for freeing those dead, straw-like ends off. I mean, they're going to have to get cut at some point. Then again, all the hair in my eyebrows will also fall out and replace itself, but that doesn't gear me up to shave my eyebrows either.
But at the time, I was livid. Not that she just hacked off an inch and a half more than I wanted, but also because out of the corner of my eye I saw her old pasty arms and hands SHAKING. As in, I'm-an-old-person-and-I'm-spilling-my-coffee shaking. As in, I'm-having-trouble-opening-my-Werthers-butterscotch-candy shaking.
After she finished, she half-heartedly blow-dried my hair into a style made popular by my Hollywood brother, Ricky Shroder, in his movie debut, Little Lord Fauntleroy.
So I left with my hair half-wet, my back half-soaked, and my sensibilities at half-mast.
I was livid. I was hysterical. So I did the only thing that made sense.
I went home, I reshowered and spent 20 minutes shampooing my shortened locks.
But...it's only hair....and it WILL grow out. Eventually.
4.03.2012
Zengels vs. The Fuzz
My sister would kill me if she knew I was writing this, but it's a great story.
The year was 1999. The event, my brother's wedding in Lewisburg, PA, about an hour from Penn State's main campus. For anyone unfamiliar with that area let me tell you, for miles and miles all you see is corn. A LOT of corn. Like every 40 minutes you'd see something OTHER than corn.
Gretchen and I rode back to NJ together after the festivities, her smoking Marlboros and speeding down the highway; far away from her younger brother's wedding. At the time I didn't understand why she was so upset that he was getting married before her, and frankly, I found it amusing. Fast forward to 2008 when I was 28 and watching my younger cousin get married before me and I understood. Something about the linear progression of time and how you feel dizzy when someone passes you.
But I digress. As Gretchen and I sped past an endless blur of green fields, we heard a siren and knew we had been nabbed.
Gretchen coached me and said, "Heidi....start crying." My forehead all crinkled, my eyes wide, I asked what she meant. With a crooked smile she said, "Start crying! It's our only way out of this....GO! START! Really lay it on thick!"
The problem is that I'm not a natural-born crier. I go months without crying. Finally realizing the drought, I'll force myself to watch Steel Magnolias or Beaches, just to flush out my tear ducts. So crying on demand is a talent that I don't possess.
So instead I giggled, which was contagious and before you knew it, the two of us were laughing our asses off as a state trooper knocked on my window.
As he retreated back to his car with Gretchen's license and registration, she said, "You know why we're getting a ticket? Because we're not pretty enough." Then in a dramatic fake sob, she whined, "WE'RE NOT PRETTYYYYYY ENOUGHHHHHHHHH...." I lost it, any composure I had was gone and I was back to hysterical laughter.
She swore me to secrecy and I promised I would file it in the back of the "Don't Tell Mom and Dad" folder.
There was something in that moment, maybe it was that yet another wedding had happened and it wasn't hers, that we had been caught speeding, but there wasn't the normal sense of resignation. It was a sense of, "This can't get any worse! So screw it!" It was a moment that will always make me laugh, because yeah, there are times when you think it can't get any worse and it does. And sometimes all you can do is laugh.
If I had to pay money for life lessons, I know how much that one would cost, $150. Or at least that's how much the state trooper thought it was worth.
The year was 1999. The event, my brother's wedding in Lewisburg, PA, about an hour from Penn State's main campus. For anyone unfamiliar with that area let me tell you, for miles and miles all you see is corn. A LOT of corn. Like every 40 minutes you'd see something OTHER than corn.
Gretchen and I rode back to NJ together after the festivities, her smoking Marlboros and speeding down the highway; far away from her younger brother's wedding. At the time I didn't understand why she was so upset that he was getting married before her, and frankly, I found it amusing. Fast forward to 2008 when I was 28 and watching my younger cousin get married before me and I understood. Something about the linear progression of time and how you feel dizzy when someone passes you.
But I digress. As Gretchen and I sped past an endless blur of green fields, we heard a siren and knew we had been nabbed.
Gretchen coached me and said, "Heidi....start crying." My forehead all crinkled, my eyes wide, I asked what she meant. With a crooked smile she said, "Start crying! It's our only way out of this....GO! START! Really lay it on thick!"
The problem is that I'm not a natural-born crier. I go months without crying. Finally realizing the drought, I'll force myself to watch Steel Magnolias or Beaches, just to flush out my tear ducts. So crying on demand is a talent that I don't possess.
So instead I giggled, which was contagious and before you knew it, the two of us were laughing our asses off as a state trooper knocked on my window.
As he retreated back to his car with Gretchen's license and registration, she said, "You know why we're getting a ticket? Because we're not pretty enough." Then in a dramatic fake sob, she whined, "WE'RE NOT PRETTYYYYYY ENOUGHHHHHHHHH...." I lost it, any composure I had was gone and I was back to hysterical laughter.
She swore me to secrecy and I promised I would file it in the back of the "Don't Tell Mom and Dad" folder.
There was something in that moment, maybe it was that yet another wedding had happened and it wasn't hers, that we had been caught speeding, but there wasn't the normal sense of resignation. It was a sense of, "This can't get any worse! So screw it!" It was a moment that will always make me laugh, because yeah, there are times when you think it can't get any worse and it does. And sometimes all you can do is laugh.
If I had to pay money for life lessons, I know how much that one would cost, $150. Or at least that's how much the state trooper thought it was worth.
3.26.2012
The Homewreckers
Unlike many folks in this day and age, my parents have an unfinished basement. Ok, they have an un-started basement.
For several reasons, this was never a grown-up social setting and quickly became the playroom/TV room/sleepover headquarters in addition to what it already was -- a storage facility.
From the washer (with a PVC pipe dumping into the janitorial sink) and dryer (hooked up to the weird space-suit arm leading to the vent outside) to the random pieces of wood and fishing poles stored between the wooden braces of the ceiling, their basement reeks of my dad's blue-collar feng shui.
There's his worktable overflowing with mason jars of turpentine, baby food jars of screws, bits of scrap metal and wood, basically anything you'd ever need to fix anything. Ever. Leather oil? Vice? 7 different kinds of tape?
My dad is such a home improvement pack-rat that when my brother and sister-in-law were expecting their second child, my brother called under the guise of "I need you to come quickly! Bring a sledgehammer and some Guerrilla Glue!" My parents arrived at my brother's house breathless and ready to simultaneously destroy something and glue it back together. My brother, of course, didn't need either, just an excuse to have them drop by while his in-laws were in town and knew that my dad would have both and would come running. A hilarious prank considering my brother's trademark placid and imperturbable personality.
Alongside my dad's worktable, there's a big chalkboard next to an authentic iron boxing bell I used as a school bell, a pull-up bar, and two 5' metal filing cabinets. You can also find a yellow HAZMAT suit complete with mask, several types of rubber gloves, fluorescent orange traffic vests, a dog leash (note: our dog died in 2002), and possibly a pinewood derby racing car (circa 1987).
There are random, unmatched rugs everywhere in an effort to cover the uneven cement floor. Our television stand is a porcelain sink. (Note: I didn't realize this was unusual until I was in college). We also have an entire section of board games and children's toys, camping equipment, paint cans, a croquet set, and tins of plastic silverware that my mom insists on washing after parties.
At age 7, my friend Jana (jay-nah) and I were playing after school and discovered that the Styrofoam insulation on one wall doubled as a blank canvas. We carved our names, we used pencils to gauge designs, we clawed maniacally in no pattern whatesoever, solely because the texture of those minuscule Styrofoam balls under our fingernails felt like what I imagine drawing on the surface of the moon feels like. After what seemed like hours, Jana's mom arrived and we ran carelessly up the steps to greet her.
Laughing and looking like 2 human nonpareils, we bounded into the living room leaving little white balls in our wake unknowingly having destroyed the basement in what was probably only 30 minutes. Face-to-face with 2 equally angry mothers, they lit into us at a volume my neighbors had probably become familiar with.
To Jana, I apologize. In all likelihood, it was probably my idea and you got the worst of the repercussions, solely because my mom's anger was trumped by your mom's red-hot embarrassment-turned-fury.
To my family, you're welcome. After the mess was cleaned up (a good vacuuming was all it took), my dad installed giant floor-length mirrors and classed up the place, not to mention created an illusion that our basement had doubled in size. And in a house that small, with that much stuff, if the only space we can get is an illusion, we'll take it.
For several reasons, this was never a grown-up social setting and quickly became the playroom/TV room/sleepover headquarters in addition to what it already was -- a storage facility.
From the washer (with a PVC pipe dumping into the janitorial sink) and dryer (hooked up to the weird space-suit arm leading to the vent outside) to the random pieces of wood and fishing poles stored between the wooden braces of the ceiling, their basement reeks of my dad's blue-collar feng shui.
There's his worktable overflowing with mason jars of turpentine, baby food jars of screws, bits of scrap metal and wood, basically anything you'd ever need to fix anything. Ever. Leather oil? Vice? 7 different kinds of tape?
My dad is such a home improvement pack-rat that when my brother and sister-in-law were expecting their second child, my brother called under the guise of "I need you to come quickly! Bring a sledgehammer and some Guerrilla Glue!" My parents arrived at my brother's house breathless and ready to simultaneously destroy something and glue it back together. My brother, of course, didn't need either, just an excuse to have them drop by while his in-laws were in town and knew that my dad would have both and would come running. A hilarious prank considering my brother's trademark placid and imperturbable personality.
Alongside my dad's worktable, there's a big chalkboard next to an authentic iron boxing bell I used as a school bell, a pull-up bar, and two 5' metal filing cabinets. You can also find a yellow HAZMAT suit complete with mask, several types of rubber gloves, fluorescent orange traffic vests, a dog leash (note: our dog died in 2002), and possibly a pinewood derby racing car (circa 1987).
There are random, unmatched rugs everywhere in an effort to cover the uneven cement floor. Our television stand is a porcelain sink. (Note: I didn't realize this was unusual until I was in college). We also have an entire section of board games and children's toys, camping equipment, paint cans, a croquet set, and tins of plastic silverware that my mom insists on washing after parties.
At age 7, my friend Jana (jay-nah) and I were playing after school and discovered that the Styrofoam insulation on one wall doubled as a blank canvas. We carved our names, we used pencils to gauge designs, we clawed maniacally in no pattern whatesoever, solely because the texture of those minuscule Styrofoam balls under our fingernails felt like what I imagine drawing on the surface of the moon feels like. After what seemed like hours, Jana's mom arrived and we ran carelessly up the steps to greet her.
Laughing and looking like 2 human nonpareils, we bounded into the living room leaving little white balls in our wake unknowingly having destroyed the basement in what was probably only 30 minutes. Face-to-face with 2 equally angry mothers, they lit into us at a volume my neighbors had probably become familiar with.
To Jana, I apologize. In all likelihood, it was probably my idea and you got the worst of the repercussions, solely because my mom's anger was trumped by your mom's red-hot embarrassment-turned-fury.
To my family, you're welcome. After the mess was cleaned up (a good vacuuming was all it took), my dad installed giant floor-length mirrors and classed up the place, not to mention created an illusion that our basement had doubled in size. And in a house that small, with that much stuff, if the only space we can get is an illusion, we'll take it.
3.16.2012
Heidi the Pelican
I'm not sure when it started (1 year? 3 years?) or why (because I'm famished? or because I have so much to say?), but recently I've had some issues eating.
Not so much the biting and digesting part, but the general chewing and swallowing part (I put "chewing" in there because I know how you think, you sickos).
About a year ago, I met 6 of Justin's friends for the first time at a Chinese restaurant. I went with one of my beloved standards: General Tsao's Chicken.
After splitting a scorpion bowl with Justin, our food arrived. (Note: scorpion bowls have powers in them. You think you become invincible.)
The pieces of golden fried chicken were an odd size. A little big bigger than a large marble, but most people would just hold the chicken, bite off half, chew it, then go back and finish the other half still held in the chopsticks.
Instead, I picked up my chopsticks, stuffed the entire piece of chicken in my mouth, bit it in half, then simultaneously chewed one half while "pouching" the other half in my cheek until I could attend to it.
This worked until like 3 or 4 pieces of chicken into my meal.
And then disaster struck.
I had gotten too confident and was skipping the "pouching" step. Instead, I was chewing a few times then attempting to swallow something the size of a miniature golf ball. This might not be such an impressive feat for some people I know who can nearly swallow an entire banana (Esco, I'm talking to you), but as a former dentist told me, I have a small mouth. That is accompanied with a small throat.
I had sucked the chicken nugget in and nearly swallowed it whole after chewing once. But it had gotten stuck. I found myself in the awkward position of, "OMIGOD I'M CHOKING. AND I JUST MET THESE PEOPLE. DO I MAKE THE INTERNATIONAL SYMBOL FOR CHOKING? OR JUST TRY TO FIGURE THIS OUT ON MY OWN?" Yes, in my head, it was in loud, CAPS LOCK font.
Justin caught my eye, saw me turning colors (red from embarrassment, blue from choking) and asked if I was ok. Intent that I would not make a bad impression, I slightly shook my head no but apparently when you can see the whites of your dining partner's eyes, it's time to worry.
Just as I was about to stand up for an assisted Heimlich maneuver, I quickly did an extensive finger sweep and dislodged the General's chicken from my throat.
I took a few quick gasps of air, calmed down, and proceeded to cut every piece of chicken on my plate into quarters. Which was going fine until....
I pulled a Julia Roberts a la Pretty Woman stunt and a piece of chicken flew out from between my chopsticks and flew across the floor like someone skipping rocks.
Luckily, either Justin's friends were neck-deep in scorpion bowls as well, or they were just kind enough not to verbally slay me for having such atrocious manners.
Either way, it's happened a few times since then, hence my self-imposed nickname of "The Pelican".
Not so much the biting and digesting part, but the general chewing and swallowing part (I put "chewing" in there because I know how you think, you sickos).
About a year ago, I met 6 of Justin's friends for the first time at a Chinese restaurant. I went with one of my beloved standards: General Tsao's Chicken.
After splitting a scorpion bowl with Justin, our food arrived. (Note: scorpion bowls have powers in them. You think you become invincible.)
The pieces of golden fried chicken were an odd size. A little big bigger than a large marble, but most people would just hold the chicken, bite off half, chew it, then go back and finish the other half still held in the chopsticks.
Instead, I picked up my chopsticks, stuffed the entire piece of chicken in my mouth, bit it in half, then simultaneously chewed one half while "pouching" the other half in my cheek until I could attend to it.
This worked until like 3 or 4 pieces of chicken into my meal.
And then disaster struck.
I had gotten too confident and was skipping the "pouching" step. Instead, I was chewing a few times then attempting to swallow something the size of a miniature golf ball. This might not be such an impressive feat for some people I know who can nearly swallow an entire banana (Esco, I'm talking to you), but as a former dentist told me, I have a small mouth. That is accompanied with a small throat.
I had sucked the chicken nugget in and nearly swallowed it whole after chewing once. But it had gotten stuck. I found myself in the awkward position of, "OMIGOD I'M CHOKING. AND I JUST MET THESE PEOPLE. DO I MAKE THE INTERNATIONAL SYMBOL FOR CHOKING? OR JUST TRY TO FIGURE THIS OUT ON MY OWN?" Yes, in my head, it was in loud, CAPS LOCK font.
Justin caught my eye, saw me turning colors (red from embarrassment, blue from choking) and asked if I was ok. Intent that I would not make a bad impression, I slightly shook my head no but apparently when you can see the whites of your dining partner's eyes, it's time to worry.
Just as I was about to stand up for an assisted Heimlich maneuver, I quickly did an extensive finger sweep and dislodged the General's chicken from my throat.
I took a few quick gasps of air, calmed down, and proceeded to cut every piece of chicken on my plate into quarters. Which was going fine until....
I pulled a Julia Roberts a la Pretty Woman stunt and a piece of chicken flew out from between my chopsticks and flew across the floor like someone skipping rocks.
Luckily, either Justin's friends were neck-deep in scorpion bowls as well, or they were just kind enough not to verbally slay me for having such atrocious manners.
Either way, it's happened a few times since then, hence my self-imposed nickname of "The Pelican".
3.05.2012
Leap of Faith
Last week it was Leap Day. Excited to have someone to start traditions with, I woke up and immediately told Justin we should make a Leap Day tradition. After vetoing my suggestion of "Leap from the Tallest Building" where we'd have drinks at the tallest building in Boston, he suggested a "Leap of Faith" by going to see a psychic.
I excitedly agreed.
See, Justin had never been to a psychic. I had and, despite their varying degrees of authenticity, never failed to be entertained.
For our first "Leap of Faith" traditional outing, we chose the Tremont Tearoom, "the world's oldest and most reputable psychic institution, serving Boston and the universe since 1936." For our psychic, we chose Molley:
Molley is a deeply intuitive and knowledgeable third generation psychic who has been counseling and guiding seekers through many psychic salons and emporiums all over New England, including in Salem and on the South Shore. A Salem witch and a priestess trained in the Cabot tradition, her readings are notable for their magnitude and depth, and her warm, friendly manner makes her easy to talk to about all of life's questions. Her kind and compassionate heart, and authentic psychic ability, will help her to guide you to the next level in your life.
Sounds like a reputable psychic, right? Sure, Justin said "she looks like a weirdo," but he relented since she was available to do a "Two of Hearts" reading. What is this, you ask? "Two of Hearts. A couple's reading that covers the gamut of compatibility and reveals the strengths and weaknesses of your relationship. Psychic insight to meet the goal of two hearts beating as one.
Cute, right?
Upon walking into this place, it was 1 room with about 6 small tables (the size of a tray table) and chairs on either side. This could easily be a suicide hotline headquarters, if it weren't for all the mystical stones, charms, and tarot pictures scattered about.
After a short wait, Molley sat us down and told us to cut the deck of tarot cards, shuffle them, and pass them back and forth to each other while she "got to her special place." So while Justin and I smirked and passed cards back and forth, our psychic hummed/moaned while holding a phallic looking cataract-colored crystal.
Then it was down to business. He and I alternated between asking questions, picking cards from the fanned out deck of tarot cards, and listening to our psychic.
In no particular order, here are my favorite lines from the night:
So all in all, complete hogwash and horsefeathers.
Did we find divine insight into the future and/or past? No.
Were we heavily entertained with a one-man show full of theatrics and props? Absolutely.
We're thinking that in 4 years we'll try our luck at tea leaves. I mean, at the very least, maybe I won't get called a giant whale and my psychic won't hit on my boyfriend.
I excitedly agreed.
See, Justin had never been to a psychic. I had and, despite their varying degrees of authenticity, never failed to be entertained.
For our first "Leap of Faith" traditional outing, we chose the Tremont Tearoom, "the world's oldest and most reputable psychic institution, serving Boston and the universe since 1936." For our psychic, we chose Molley:
Molley is a deeply intuitive and knowledgeable third generation psychic who has been counseling and guiding seekers through many psychic salons and emporiums all over New England, including in Salem and on the South Shore. A Salem witch and a priestess trained in the Cabot tradition, her readings are notable for their magnitude and depth, and her warm, friendly manner makes her easy to talk to about all of life's questions. Her kind and compassionate heart, and authentic psychic ability, will help her to guide you to the next level in your life.
Sounds like a reputable psychic, right? Sure, Justin said "she looks like a weirdo," but he relented since she was available to do a "Two of Hearts" reading. What is this, you ask? "Two of Hearts. A couple's reading that covers the gamut of compatibility and reveals the strengths and weaknesses of your relationship. Psychic insight to meet the goal of two hearts beating as one.
Cute, right?
Upon walking into this place, it was 1 room with about 6 small tables (the size of a tray table) and chairs on either side. This could easily be a suicide hotline headquarters, if it weren't for all the mystical stones, charms, and tarot pictures scattered about.
After a short wait, Molley sat us down and told us to cut the deck of tarot cards, shuffle them, and pass them back and forth to each other while she "got to her special place." So while Justin and I smirked and passed cards back and forth, our psychic hummed/moaned while holding a phallic looking cataract-colored crystal.
Then it was down to business. He and I alternated between asking questions, picking cards from the fanned out deck of tarot cards, and listening to our psychic.
In no particular order, here are my favorite lines from the night:
- [to me] You've had a hard life, haven't you? You have....[looks at Justin and points to me] She's been put through the wringer, so be good to her. Wow, I mean, you really...rough stuff, right? Me: No, not really. (my childhood was idyllic compared to most people). Her: ...Well, maybe you're blocking it? That must be it.
- [to me] You get depressed. Me: sometimes (like 2 days every 6 months, but I feel like that's a normal amount and totally acceptable). Her: What are you doing about it? Me: Umm...nothing. I mean, exercising....eating better. Her: tsk, tsk, tsk. You need to talk to someone about that.
- [to me, smiling] You love spending money. You do! Ah, I see it, and when you don't have enough money, you....get....depressed. [looking at Justin] Do you have a good job? Yes? Good. Because she needs financial security, or she can get depressed.
- [to both of us] Are you married? Engaged? Living together? No? ok. Which one of you has a child? You? You? [I laugh and say to Justin, Well, you never know...maybe a wild and crazy spring break night....you could have a child running around....] Her: So you MIGHT? No? Ok, well, I see a child in your future. Very soon. What are you using for birth control? Well, whatever it is, you should double up, if you know what I mean.
- [to both of us] Well, your marriage? It's going to be....TOUGH. It's going to be hard, really hard, and it's going to take a LOT of work to make it through.
- [to me] Your health? It's dicey.
- [to me] Whooooo.....you're going to gain a lot weight. After you have kids you're going to be a big woman. [looks at Justin] Do you have big women in your family? Yes? Good, because she's going to be a big woman [laughs good-naturedly].
So all in all, complete hogwash and horsefeathers.
Did we find divine insight into the future and/or past? No.
Were we heavily entertained with a one-man show full of theatrics and props? Absolutely.
We're thinking that in 4 years we'll try our luck at tea leaves. I mean, at the very least, maybe I won't get called a giant whale and my psychic won't hit on my boyfriend.
2.29.2012
High School Hierarchy
When people ask about what my high school was like, often I start with, "Have you ever seen 'Varsity Blues'?" If so, then people know where I'm going with this. If not, let me educate you.
My graduating class was about 350. I thought this was huge until Spank, my college roommate, told me she graduated with a class of 800. With 350 kids, you recognize faces, you know most people's names, their siblings, what sports they play, and economic status. You also inherently know if they are "cool." And not just "cool" but what level of cool they are.
"A" Group
More commonly known as the elite group, this was who everyone aspired to be, yet simultaneously abhorred. They were cool because...they simply existed. Some people in this group, like Katie, had it all. She had perfect hair, perfect body, and perfect teeth, and to top it all off, she was the head cheerleader, the star field hockey player, AND the salutatorian. She was annoyingly perfect. But, like all the elites, she gave off the air that she didn't CARE if she were popular. She just WAS. Strangely, these kids were equally noted to be in the Honors Society, the head cheerleaders, star quarterbacks, and star wrestlers (or 'wrastlers' as some said), and yet also the biggest drug users. I would say about 10 out of 350 kids were in the A Group.
This was the group Harve and I longed to be in, but spent 4 years hiding from, blushing in front of, and feeling genuinely uneasy around. We wanted to be cool, but there was NO WAY we could've fit into this group. This is the Ferris Bueller of popularity. You don't think about having a party at your house or worrying about your parents finding out, you just DO IT. And Harve and I would've been too nervous, not confident enough, to ever fit in here.
Strangely enough, both Harve's siblings were in this group. I was fortunate, in that my sister had dropped out of the popularity race and went the opposite direction by joining up with the hippie commune. My brother was more of an unknown. From what I could gather, he either flew under the radar, or ended up in the same ranks that I did.
"B" Group
This was about 1/4 of the student body. Most of the football team and the rest of the cheerleaders were in this group. Hence, Varsity Blues. Thank you high school athletic stereotypes.
The rest of the kids in this group were popular, but because they worked at it, not because it came naturally. And that's what made them so sad. This group was what teen movies are made of. They would throw you under the bus if it meant they'd elevate themselves to the A Group or even just to secure their position in the B Group. These kids could be peer pressured into anything -- drugs, alcohol, sex, class uprisings, cheating, etc. -- just to seem cooler.
On one hand, Harve and I wanted to be cool. But, on the other hand, we never would've sold ourselves to the devil JUST to be cool. We were too scared and genuinely good to maliciously start rumors or talk back to teachers.
About 100-150 kids were in the B Group.
"C" Group
If things had been different, I could've seen Harve and I in this group. In fact, Deege managed to get there as well as about half our other friends. This was the group who had a good time, maybe got invited to parties "under the bridge", but didn't care too much about whether or not they were popular. These kids played sports like soccer, tennis, field hockey, baseball, and anything else that failed to bring money into the school.
This was also the drama club kids and some of the cooler band nerds who actually had their own bands and would play at local coffee houses. These kids also had the magic ability to float between class systems, blending magically with the popular jocks and the meek nerds like myself.
This left 2 groups.
"D" Group
For the rest of the band nerds, anyone in FFA (Future Farmers of America), the Goths. For example, if you were a Mathlete, you'd be in the D Group. And we'd welcome you because frankly, we'd enjoy the company of a fellow nerd.
I remember football games where Harve and I would march out onto the field past the student section (a smattering of A, mostly B, and a smattering of C) and say under our breath, "yesss we know, we're giant nerds, just please ignore us, just pretend we are not clad in heavy polyester with giant feather plumes walking past you" but we always felt people staring at us, their eyes a mixture of pity, wonder, and embarrassment.
Ok, maybe the student section was blindingly drunk and not staring at us like that, but it FELT that way.
And finally there was the "F" Group. These were the special ed. kids and the 16 year old pregnant girls.
The funny thing is that when I think back on my braces, my hand-me-down clothing from my sister (a good 3 inches taller than me), my constant state of embarrassment, I picture Fern Mayo from the movie Jawbreaker:
and I am relieved that I never have to go through high school again.
Recently I was talking about high school with a friend I met 3 years ago, and she said, "Heidi, I bet you were so popular, you were probably a cheerleader in high school." It made me laugh so hard to think of where I used to be and how far I'd come and that now, 18 years later, I finally had the confidence I so sorely lacked as a 14-year-old.
I like to think maybe I'd be in that elite group now, not because I care about which group I could qualify for, but more importantly that finally, after all these years, I care so little about it.
Also, because I'm still afraid of having parties at my parents' house.
My graduating class was about 350. I thought this was huge until Spank, my college roommate, told me she graduated with a class of 800. With 350 kids, you recognize faces, you know most people's names, their siblings, what sports they play, and economic status. You also inherently know if they are "cool." And not just "cool" but what level of cool they are.
"A" Group
More commonly known as the elite group, this was who everyone aspired to be, yet simultaneously abhorred. They were cool because...they simply existed. Some people in this group, like Katie, had it all. She had perfect hair, perfect body, and perfect teeth, and to top it all off, she was the head cheerleader, the star field hockey player, AND the salutatorian. She was annoyingly perfect. But, like all the elites, she gave off the air that she didn't CARE if she were popular. She just WAS. Strangely, these kids were equally noted to be in the Honors Society, the head cheerleaders, star quarterbacks, and star wrestlers (or 'wrastlers' as some said), and yet also the biggest drug users. I would say about 10 out of 350 kids were in the A Group.
This was the group Harve and I longed to be in, but spent 4 years hiding from, blushing in front of, and feeling genuinely uneasy around. We wanted to be cool, but there was NO WAY we could've fit into this group. This is the Ferris Bueller of popularity. You don't think about having a party at your house or worrying about your parents finding out, you just DO IT. And Harve and I would've been too nervous, not confident enough, to ever fit in here.
Strangely enough, both Harve's siblings were in this group. I was fortunate, in that my sister had dropped out of the popularity race and went the opposite direction by joining up with the hippie commune. My brother was more of an unknown. From what I could gather, he either flew under the radar, or ended up in the same ranks that I did.
"B" Group
This was about 1/4 of the student body. Most of the football team and the rest of the cheerleaders were in this group. Hence, Varsity Blues. Thank you high school athletic stereotypes.
The rest of the kids in this group were popular, but because they worked at it, not because it came naturally. And that's what made them so sad. This group was what teen movies are made of. They would throw you under the bus if it meant they'd elevate themselves to the A Group or even just to secure their position in the B Group. These kids could be peer pressured into anything -- drugs, alcohol, sex, class uprisings, cheating, etc. -- just to seem cooler.
On one hand, Harve and I wanted to be cool. But, on the other hand, we never would've sold ourselves to the devil JUST to be cool. We were too scared and genuinely good to maliciously start rumors or talk back to teachers.
About 100-150 kids were in the B Group.
"C" Group
If things had been different, I could've seen Harve and I in this group. In fact, Deege managed to get there as well as about half our other friends. This was the group who had a good time, maybe got invited to parties "under the bridge", but didn't care too much about whether or not they were popular. These kids played sports like soccer, tennis, field hockey, baseball, and anything else that failed to bring money into the school.
This was also the drama club kids and some of the cooler band nerds who actually had their own bands and would play at local coffee houses. These kids also had the magic ability to float between class systems, blending magically with the popular jocks and the meek nerds like myself.
This left 2 groups.
"D" Group
For the rest of the band nerds, anyone in FFA (Future Farmers of America), the Goths. For example, if you were a Mathlete, you'd be in the D Group. And we'd welcome you because frankly, we'd enjoy the company of a fellow nerd.
I remember football games where Harve and I would march out onto the field past the student section (a smattering of A, mostly B, and a smattering of C) and say under our breath, "yesss we know, we're giant nerds, just please ignore us, just pretend we are not clad in heavy polyester with giant feather plumes walking past you" but we always felt people staring at us, their eyes a mixture of pity, wonder, and embarrassment.
Ok, maybe the student section was blindingly drunk and not staring at us like that, but it FELT that way.
And finally there was the "F" Group. These were the special ed. kids and the 16 year old pregnant girls.
The funny thing is that when I think back on my braces, my hand-me-down clothing from my sister (a good 3 inches taller than me), my constant state of embarrassment, I picture Fern Mayo from the movie Jawbreaker:
Recently I was talking about high school with a friend I met 3 years ago, and she said, "Heidi, I bet you were so popular, you were probably a cheerleader in high school." It made me laugh so hard to think of where I used to be and how far I'd come and that now, 18 years later, I finally had the confidence I so sorely lacked as a 14-year-old.
I like to think maybe I'd be in that elite group now, not because I care about which group I could qualify for, but more importantly that finally, after all these years, I care so little about it.
Also, because I'm still afraid of having parties at my parents' house.
2.12.2012
I Am Eating NECCO Wafers
And I am reminded of two things:
- Steve McGuigan — my brother’s friend who lived down the street from us. Sometimes, on very rare occassions, they would allow me tag along on a bike ride (i.e. my mom forced Johnny to bring me along) to Ebner’s Shop-o-Rama. Ebner’s (now defunct), was a one-stop-shop convenience store. It was within biking distance of our house, but it required crossing some “busy” intersections and I couldn’t go by myself. So it was a real treat to go there and pick out candy or a Stewart’s rootbeer I could enjoy in the park next door, or put in my little handlebar fanny-pack to enjoy later. When Johnny and Steve would take me along to Ebners, I remember Steve always buying a pack of Necco wafers.
- Receiving the communion at the Catholic church my best friend attended (and I would be forced to attend almost every weekend when I slept over). I remember taking it, placing it in my mouth and thinking, “Hey! It’s like a bland Necco wafer!” And that’s what I told my mom when I came home that day. Her response was, “Tell me you didn’t eat it!?” which I thought was odd, because:
- if given a snack during church, why wouldn’t I take it? If I shouldn’t have the snacks they give out, then my mom should’ve known better and packed me some ‘Nilla Wafers or something.
- I just told you what it tasted like, so of course I ate it. I was promptly yelled at for “eating the body of Christ” because I never had my First Communion, or been baptized for that matter.
2.11.2012
Bring Your Daughter to Work Day
When I was a wee tot, I heard mumblings about Bring Your Daughter to Work Day. And I remember thinking, “Yay! I’m going to get to see where Dad works!”
Lo and behold, I did not.
When I asked, in my very cutest Cindy-Lou-Who voice, why I couldn’t accompany him, my dad said it wasn’t safe. Then rambled on about the kind of place he worked in and how there were all these big machines and if people aren’t careful they sometimes lose fingers or get hair caught in gears.Terrifying? Maybe. But exciting? Absolutely. Just the kind of loud, noisy, fast-paced environment a kid would LOVE to see.
See, my dad was a safety supervisor of the Mobil Chemical warehouse. They made and shipped Styrofoam cups, plates, bowls, and garbage bags. Hence why my parents always had a surplus of such items (until I hit high school and scolded them repeatedly for all the Styrofoam).
Unfortunately, for a six-year-old girl, this makes no sense. I knew what Mobil was because we often gassed up our station wagon there. And while I didn’t know what a warehouse was, I knew what a GREENhouse was.
Close enough, right?
So when I was asked in school what my daddy did, I said:
“He works at a Mobil Gas Station greenhouse. And he has to wear steel-tipped boots.”
I can only imagine the look of confusion on the teacher’s face.
Lo and behold, I did not.
When I asked, in my very cutest Cindy-Lou-Who voice, why I couldn’t accompany him, my dad said it wasn’t safe. Then rambled on about the kind of place he worked in and how there were all these big machines and if people aren’t careful they sometimes lose fingers or get hair caught in gears.Terrifying? Maybe. But exciting? Absolutely. Just the kind of loud, noisy, fast-paced environment a kid would LOVE to see.
See, my dad was a safety supervisor of the Mobil Chemical warehouse. They made and shipped Styrofoam cups, plates, bowls, and garbage bags. Hence why my parents always had a surplus of such items (until I hit high school and scolded them repeatedly for all the Styrofoam).
Unfortunately, for a six-year-old girl, this makes no sense. I knew what Mobil was because we often gassed up our station wagon there. And while I didn’t know what a warehouse was, I knew what a GREENhouse was.
Close enough, right?
So when I was asked in school what my daddy did, I said:
“He works at a Mobil Gas Station greenhouse. And he has to wear steel-tipped boots.”
I can only imagine the look of confusion on the teacher’s face.
2.01.2012
School Lunches
I bought a Valentine’s Day card for my mom last week. On the front, there’s a picture of Cupid in his little diaper, bow and quiver of arrows in hand standing on a cloud with his mom who is saying, “Here’s an extra-small sweatshirt if you get cold. Remember always point that arrow away from you. And I packed you a nice, heart-shaped baloney sandwich for lunch.”
The reason I bought this specific card is that Mom Z. actually used cookie cutters on my sandwiches when she packed my lunch. Pumpkins, Easter eggs, smiley faces, hearts, you name it. Why? Because it made eating a regular ol’ baloney sandwich more FUN.
My mom is the single greatest lunch maker on the planet.
When I think back to school lunches, I fondly remember the following:
Harve would dump her paper bag on the lunch table to find…a sandwich made of 2 heels of extra wheat bread, 2 slices of cheese (which is the ONLY item Harve doesn’t eat, literally any other food she’ll eat) and lettuce wrapped in a…..deli meat baggie. So essentially a lettuce sandwich, once the cheese was tossed.
To add insult to injury, at the bottom of the paper bag were 3 prunes.
Some days, she’d excitedly talk about leftovers that would be waiting for her in her locker: egg rolls, steak sandwiches, chili dogs. All at whatever balmy room temperature her locker was.
A bottomless pit while we were growing up, she was always hungry, so needless to say a lettuce sandwich and 3 prunes weren’t really going to cut it. Thankfully/Not thankfully, my mom packed me with more food than I should have eaten (and yet did, most of the time).
On days when Harve brought her lunch, I’d offer up 1 of my Ring Dings or my apples and cinnamon, or some of my peanut butter crackers because I knew she was still hungry. On days when Harve BOUGHT her lunch from the lunch ladies, she was happy as a clam. Stuff that most kids wouldn’t touch—roast beef or meatloaf, mashed potatoes with gravy that had a hint of green to it, green beans, corn—she ate it all and loved it. To this day, when she works as a teacher, she still buys the school lunch and STILL enjoys it.
But for me, nothing quite takes the cake like my mom’s lunches. Even lunches at home were fun because she’d make us “Happy Face Plates.” A paper plate with a face drawn on it, covered up with lunch to make another face. Pickles would get sliced in half and be used as lips, lettuce would be used as hair, radishes would be used as red cheeks, etc.
In recognition, I’d like to give the gold medal of lunchmaking to Mom Z. for her 20+ years of school lunch service. [sidenote: she STILL packs my dad’s lunch, so when he officially retires she should get a bronzed lunchbox or something]
The reason I bought this specific card is that Mom Z. actually used cookie cutters on my sandwiches when she packed my lunch. Pumpkins, Easter eggs, smiley faces, hearts, you name it. Why? Because it made eating a regular ol’ baloney sandwich more FUN.
My mom is the single greatest lunch maker on the planet.
When I think back to school lunches, I fondly remember the following:
- Napkins with stickers on them for every holiday. She’d go one step further and have word bubbles coming out from the stickers saying stuff like, “Have a great day!” “Good luck on your test!” “Tell your friends I said hi! (and then she’d list all the people at my lunch table)” Her napkins would be artwork, hand-drawn characters peeking through a window she’d cut into the two-ply paper. On rare occasions, she’d tape quarters to the napkin so I could enjoy a special treat of an ice cream sandwich (or in high school, a Chipwich).
- PB&J, Fluffernutter sandwiches, baloney sandwiches, liverwurst sandwiches, turkey sandwiches, peanut butter and cracker sandwiches. Every morning as I ate my breakfast, she’d say, “What do you want in your lunch? I have…..” and then she’d list my options and I’d get to choose what kind of sandwich I wanted that day, down to the type of peanut butter (always creamy for me) and type of jelly (always grape, although now I love strawberry).
- Oranges and apples. I hated the pith on the orange, so my mom found a way around that and would send me with oranges cut in circle slices so I could peel them apart into little triangles of fruit juice. The apples also got special treatment. She’d cut them into chunks, sprinkle them with cinnamon and sugar, dump them into a baggie and twist tie a toothpick onto the bag so my fingers wouldn’t get all gooey. Growing up, I thought she was being extra nice, but found out recently she put cinnamon on them so I couldn’t see what degree of brown the apple would get as the day went on.
- Dessert. Compliments and criticism here. First, my mom packed my lunch with a sandwich, drink (chocolate milk or apple juice), something healthy, and a dessert. That dessert would be anything from pink coconut snowballs, Ring Dings, Ho Hos, Twinkies, leftover Halloween/Easter candy to homemade cookies. And it was AWESOME. As an adult, I find that when I eat lunch, I often crave a little something sweet. Why is that? Maybe 13 years of conditioning???
- Healthy stuff. My mom also tried to sneak in some healthy stuff once in a while. Raw carrots. Raw broccoli and cauliflower. Cucumbers. (maybe this is why I prefer my veggies uncooked?) Celery with peanut butter. One day while we were in our local grocery store (Laneco), Aaron F’s mom came up to my mom and asked where she bought her orange french fries. My mom stood puzzled. Upon further explanation, my mom realized she was referring to her homemade crinkle-cut CARROTS. Carrots + pastry blade = orange crinkle cut fry lookalike.
Harve would dump her paper bag on the lunch table to find…a sandwich made of 2 heels of extra wheat bread, 2 slices of cheese (which is the ONLY item Harve doesn’t eat, literally any other food she’ll eat) and lettuce wrapped in a…..deli meat baggie. So essentially a lettuce sandwich, once the cheese was tossed.
To add insult to injury, at the bottom of the paper bag were 3 prunes.
Some days, she’d excitedly talk about leftovers that would be waiting for her in her locker: egg rolls, steak sandwiches, chili dogs. All at whatever balmy room temperature her locker was.
A bottomless pit while we were growing up, she was always hungry, so needless to say a lettuce sandwich and 3 prunes weren’t really going to cut it. Thankfully/Not thankfully, my mom packed me with more food than I should have eaten (and yet did, most of the time).
On days when Harve brought her lunch, I’d offer up 1 of my Ring Dings or my apples and cinnamon, or some of my peanut butter crackers because I knew she was still hungry. On days when Harve BOUGHT her lunch from the lunch ladies, she was happy as a clam. Stuff that most kids wouldn’t touch—roast beef or meatloaf, mashed potatoes with gravy that had a hint of green to it, green beans, corn—she ate it all and loved it. To this day, when she works as a teacher, she still buys the school lunch and STILL enjoys it.
But for me, nothing quite takes the cake like my mom’s lunches. Even lunches at home were fun because she’d make us “Happy Face Plates.” A paper plate with a face drawn on it, covered up with lunch to make another face. Pickles would get sliced in half and be used as lips, lettuce would be used as hair, radishes would be used as red cheeks, etc.
In recognition, I’d like to give the gold medal of lunchmaking to Mom Z. for her 20+ years of school lunch service. [sidenote: she STILL packs my dad’s lunch, so when he officially retires she should get a bronzed lunchbox or something]
1.22.2012
B&E for Beginners
Last weekend my car was broken into.
Let me preface this story by saying none of my former cars, nor my parents’ cars, have been broken into.
Why? Because in the history of the Zengels, we’ve driven shitty cars. Turns out, criminals don’t want to break into shitty cars, they tend to break into either really common cars (Toyota Camry) or top of the line cars.
I drive a Toyota Matrix. A simple hatchback with plenty of dings and dents that let people know that my car is now a city car. When I park in sketchy areas, I’m not afraid that someone’s going to steal my car because it’s so run-of-the-mill. I WAS afraid of having my GPS or XM radio stolen because those are typical hot ticket items.
A friend of mine grew up in Center City Philly and regaled me with stories about not-so-typical hot ticket items. For example, she kept her EZ Pass tag in her glove compartment because thieves were known to break into a car and steal the pass from windshield. She also kept her registration sticker (that typically would go on her license plate) in her glove compartment because thieves had been known to use wire cutters and literally cut her neighbors’ license plates, take the stickers and glue them onto their own plates (thus not having to pay the registration fee when theirs expired).
Growing up in a small town where my parents rarely locked our cars, it was kind of a shock to the system when my Gertie the Matrix had been ravaged.
The tip-off that my car had been broken into was my GPS/cell phone charger dock laying on the ground outside of the driver’s door. Also, my CDs, papers, etc. were strewn about the floor on the passenger’s side. [For those out there who keep your car a mess, maybe you’re actually a deterrent for B&Es and they think your car has already been broken into.]
Panic set in.
I saw that my XM radio dock had been ripped from the dashboard where it had been GORILLA glued. This is the stuff you see in commercials where a guy’s construction hat is glued to a beam and holds him up. I mean, kudos to you, thief. You must work out in order to be able to rip that adhesive bond.
But it wasn’t stolen, merely dangling by the wires that are threaded through the dashboard.
Surely then, they must have stolen the faceplate of the XM radio?
But a quick inspection to its hiding spot told me it was still safe and sound.
Since my GPS is broken and on Justin’s table awaiting his unfound fixit skills, and my phone—which doubles as my GPS—was in the house, there wasn’t any GPS the thief(ves) could steal. And since we already found the cradle for the phone, that wasn’t stolen, either.
Justin and I were puzzled.
XM dock. XM faceplate. GPS dock. check, check, check.
My windows hadn’t been broken. It didn’t appear that any of my CDs were stolen. Even an errant credit card I had stashed for emergencies hadn’t been found or stolen (thankfully — now I carry it with me).
So…the only thing I could note that was missing was…a jar of change that I had recently emptied of quarters to vacuum my car. Which left…about $0.47 in nickels and dimes.
Some advice to the thief — maybe stick to the high-end cars rather than the sensible ones. Because frankly, if I had the money for a high-end car, I would probably have more than $0.47 in my change jar.
As Justin said, it really was a best-case scenario for someone breaking into my car. Nothing was really damaged or stolen, and on the upside, unlike my friend in Philly who had this happen to her, there wasn’t a homeless person sleeping in the back of my car curled up on my sleeping bag.
Let me preface this story by saying none of my former cars, nor my parents’ cars, have been broken into.
Why? Because in the history of the Zengels, we’ve driven shitty cars. Turns out, criminals don’t want to break into shitty cars, they tend to break into either really common cars (Toyota Camry) or top of the line cars.
I drive a Toyota Matrix. A simple hatchback with plenty of dings and dents that let people know that my car is now a city car. When I park in sketchy areas, I’m not afraid that someone’s going to steal my car because it’s so run-of-the-mill. I WAS afraid of having my GPS or XM radio stolen because those are typical hot ticket items.
A friend of mine grew up in Center City Philly and regaled me with stories about not-so-typical hot ticket items. For example, she kept her EZ Pass tag in her glove compartment because thieves were known to break into a car and steal the pass from windshield. She also kept her registration sticker (that typically would go on her license plate) in her glove compartment because thieves had been known to use wire cutters and literally cut her neighbors’ license plates, take the stickers and glue them onto their own plates (thus not having to pay the registration fee when theirs expired).
Growing up in a small town where my parents rarely locked our cars, it was kind of a shock to the system when my Gertie the Matrix had been ravaged.
The tip-off that my car had been broken into was my GPS/cell phone charger dock laying on the ground outside of the driver’s door. Also, my CDs, papers, etc. were strewn about the floor on the passenger’s side. [For those out there who keep your car a mess, maybe you’re actually a deterrent for B&Es and they think your car has already been broken into.]
Panic set in.
I saw that my XM radio dock had been ripped from the dashboard where it had been GORILLA glued. This is the stuff you see in commercials where a guy’s construction hat is glued to a beam and holds him up. I mean, kudos to you, thief. You must work out in order to be able to rip that adhesive bond.
But it wasn’t stolen, merely dangling by the wires that are threaded through the dashboard.
Surely then, they must have stolen the faceplate of the XM radio?
But a quick inspection to its hiding spot told me it was still safe and sound.
Since my GPS is broken and on Justin’s table awaiting his unfound fixit skills, and my phone—which doubles as my GPS—was in the house, there wasn’t any GPS the thief(ves) could steal. And since we already found the cradle for the phone, that wasn’t stolen, either.
Justin and I were puzzled.
XM dock. XM faceplate. GPS dock. check, check, check.
My windows hadn’t been broken. It didn’t appear that any of my CDs were stolen. Even an errant credit card I had stashed for emergencies hadn’t been found or stolen (thankfully — now I carry it with me).
So…the only thing I could note that was missing was…a jar of change that I had recently emptied of quarters to vacuum my car. Which left…about $0.47 in nickels and dimes.
Some advice to the thief — maybe stick to the high-end cars rather than the sensible ones. Because frankly, if I had the money for a high-end car, I would probably have more than $0.47 in my change jar.
As Justin said, it really was a best-case scenario for someone breaking into my car. Nothing was really damaged or stolen, and on the upside, unlike my friend in Philly who had this happen to her, there wasn’t a homeless person sleeping in the back of my car curled up on my sleeping bag.
1.12.2012
My Morning Commute
This morning, after finding yet another $40 parking ticket on my windshield, I thought the worst part of my morning commute was over. But no.
As I turned the corner and proceeded to drive up the block, I squinted to see something in the road. Keep in mind, this was at 5:15 am en route to my spin class.
I was about to honk and go around the vehicle in the middle of the road when I realized there was a person there, waving me to slow down. Not just anyone, a SWAT team member in full gear. Um, ok, Mr. SWAT, maybe not wear all black if you’re going to direct traffic during whatever kind of bust this is. Also, sure, I feel like maybe you have the authority to make me stop. And break my neck, if need be.
As I was sitting there, I realize there was an A-TEAM-esque armored van in front of me. And like ants erupting from an anthill, there were SWAT team members pouring out of the armored vehicle with AK-47s, dressed all in black. With my mouth agape, I sat wondering, “Really? Is this really happening right now?” And then I saw the final piece of the puzzle: 2 battering rams.
After all the SWAT team members had moved up the alley, I proceeded to get the hell out of Dodge. While exiting speedily, yet cautiously, I notice some Boston locals at the Dunkin’ Donuts, sipping their brew, leaning on fences and watching the drama unfold. Just another day here in South Boston. No big deal, just like watching the Fourth of July parade.
Seriously. I’m serious.
The best part is that as I was driving away, I was thinking, “Yes, drive away. For safety’s sake. Even though you kind of want to see what happens. If you get shot by random gun fire in a shoot-off, Safety Man is going to be so mad!”
As I turned the corner and proceeded to drive up the block, I squinted to see something in the road. Keep in mind, this was at 5:15 am en route to my spin class.
I was about to honk and go around the vehicle in the middle of the road when I realized there was a person there, waving me to slow down. Not just anyone, a SWAT team member in full gear. Um, ok, Mr. SWAT, maybe not wear all black if you’re going to direct traffic during whatever kind of bust this is. Also, sure, I feel like maybe you have the authority to make me stop. And break my neck, if need be.
As I was sitting there, I realize there was an A-TEAM-esque armored van in front of me. And like ants erupting from an anthill, there were SWAT team members pouring out of the armored vehicle with AK-47s, dressed all in black. With my mouth agape, I sat wondering, “Really? Is this really happening right now?” And then I saw the final piece of the puzzle: 2 battering rams.
After all the SWAT team members had moved up the alley, I proceeded to get the hell out of Dodge. While exiting speedily, yet cautiously, I notice some Boston locals at the Dunkin’ Donuts, sipping their brew, leaning on fences and watching the drama unfold. Just another day here in South Boston. No big deal, just like watching the Fourth of July parade.
Seriously. I’m serious.
The best part is that as I was driving away, I was thinking, “Yes, drive away. For safety’s sake. Even though you kind of want to see what happens. If you get shot by random gun fire in a shoot-off, Safety Man is going to be so mad!”
1.03.2012
The Garbage Scoundrels
Typical for any third child, I grew up playing with a lot of hand-me-down toys and wearing a lot of hand-me-down clothes. Regardless that some of those hand-me-downs were my brother’s. So instead of a cutesy pink and purple bike that I longed for, I had a boy’s Huffy stunt bike.
But long before the stunt bike, I had a black Big Wheel tricycle that used to be his. BLACK. I had long blonde hair, ribbons, and I was driving a boy’s Big Wheel around town like nobody’s business.
One summer day, happily playing in the yard, I parked my Big Wheel next to the dump (aka, the garbage cans at the top of our yard) and ran off to do God-knows-what.
When I returned, the scary garbagemen and their thundering trash eating machine were coming up the block and were nearly at my house.
Paralyzation kicked in. I was frozen behind some shrubbery as I watched them grab my only means of transportation, my symbol of freedom, and toss it in the mouth of putrification.
As they drove on to the next house, I continued to stand there, immobile, icy sweat forming on my five-year-old skin. With my tricycle gone, I knew I would have to face the only thing meaner and more intimidating than cigar-chewing, stain-mottled garbagemen (ok, maybe they weren’t, but this is how I remember it).
My dad.
Now, to anyone who has met my dad in the past 10 years, he seems like an easy-going retiree intent to spoil his grandchildren with candy corn, jellybeans, and M&M’s pulled from his pockets.
But growing up with him was an entirely different story. In short, my siblings and I were scared of him. Loud, angry tangents about lying politicians, curse words sprinkled through dinner table diatribes about how construction workers were useless, union workers were overpaid, “Pennsi” drivers (their house borders NJ and PA) were the bain of his existence, and too many others to count.
But there were recurring themes — honesty and hard work.
So when a toy that he spent hard-earned money on was left out carelessly next to the garbage and taken away with the trash, I dreaded the tongue-lashing, the “Dammit, Heidi!” that would come with it.
But I plucked up my courage, peeked my tear-stained face around the ferns next to our house, and confessed my sins in a torrent of apologies and sobs.
To this day, I’m not sure if my dad was already starting to soften, or if he was just so taken aback by one of his kids seeking solace and appeasement for their grievous behavior.
Whatever the case, my dad gave me a few “there-there’s” and before the sun went down that day…
I had a brand new Cabbage Patch Big Wheel.
It was PINK. It was PURPLE. It was covered in FLOWERS.
And I loved that damn bike until my knees smashed against the handlebars.
My siblings still bring it up. “The day Heidi was dumb enough to leave her bike out for the garbagemen and Dad went out and bought her a brand new one.”
Sometimes being the youngest has its advantages, like owning a piece of my dad’s tender little Grinchy heart.
But long before the stunt bike, I had a black Big Wheel tricycle that used to be his. BLACK. I had long blonde hair, ribbons, and I was driving a boy’s Big Wheel around town like nobody’s business.
One summer day, happily playing in the yard, I parked my Big Wheel next to the dump (aka, the garbage cans at the top of our yard) and ran off to do God-knows-what.
When I returned, the scary garbagemen and their thundering trash eating machine were coming up the block and were nearly at my house.
Paralyzation kicked in. I was frozen behind some shrubbery as I watched them grab my only means of transportation, my symbol of freedom, and toss it in the mouth of putrification.
As they drove on to the next house, I continued to stand there, immobile, icy sweat forming on my five-year-old skin. With my tricycle gone, I knew I would have to face the only thing meaner and more intimidating than cigar-chewing, stain-mottled garbagemen (ok, maybe they weren’t, but this is how I remember it).
My dad.
Now, to anyone who has met my dad in the past 10 years, he seems like an easy-going retiree intent to spoil his grandchildren with candy corn, jellybeans, and M&M’s pulled from his pockets.
But growing up with him was an entirely different story. In short, my siblings and I were scared of him. Loud, angry tangents about lying politicians, curse words sprinkled through dinner table diatribes about how construction workers were useless, union workers were overpaid, “Pennsi” drivers (their house borders NJ and PA) were the bain of his existence, and too many others to count.
But there were recurring themes — honesty and hard work.
So when a toy that he spent hard-earned money on was left out carelessly next to the garbage and taken away with the trash, I dreaded the tongue-lashing, the “Dammit, Heidi!” that would come with it.
But I plucked up my courage, peeked my tear-stained face around the ferns next to our house, and confessed my sins in a torrent of apologies and sobs.
To this day, I’m not sure if my dad was already starting to soften, or if he was just so taken aback by one of his kids seeking solace and appeasement for their grievous behavior.
Whatever the case, my dad gave me a few “there-there’s” and before the sun went down that day…
I had a brand new Cabbage Patch Big Wheel.
It was PINK. It was PURPLE. It was covered in FLOWERS.
And I loved that damn bike until my knees smashed against the handlebars.
My siblings still bring it up. “The day Heidi was dumb enough to leave her bike out for the garbagemen and Dad went out and bought her a brand new one.”
Sometimes being the youngest has its advantages, like owning a piece of my dad’s tender little Grinchy heart.
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