doahleigh - Holy Waste of Teabags!

Yes I am. And it’s long. So don’t start this if you’re in a hurry. I know how you are, so busy you only have time to skim your favorite blogs these days. Well slow down and set aside a little time for blog-reading. It’s important for your health. Proven scientific fact.

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The other night in class some people in my group started talking about last names. One of the girls is getting married soon, and she has been struggling with what to do about the last name issue. She said she had always planned to keep her last name, but her fiancé had “a really good argument” about why she should change it to his. She didn’t expand on what this “good argument” was, but now she is considering making her current last name into a second middle name.

My interest and deeply-considered feelings on this subject have already been documented on this site, so you know I couldn’t resist joining this conversation. I listened quietly for awhile until I couldn’t hold it anymore, then I jumped in with “So why exactly did you change your mind about keeping your name?”

I never did a clear answer on this from her, but I did share that I plan to keep my last name when I get married. Immediately the whole group looked at my left hand.

Are you engaged though?
No, but I’m really attached to my last name and I’m going to keep it.

Then the used-to-want-to-keep-my-name-until-my-fiancé-had-a-good-argument girl said the thing that makes my head spin every time.

Yeah, that’s what I used to think too. When I was in my “independent stage.” You’ll change your mind when you meet the right guy.

Of all the arguments for changing your last name, this one makes me the most frustrated. If you explain that you just never thought about it before, I can ask you what you might have done if you did think about. If you tell me that you didn’t know you even had a choice, I can ask you what you think now that you know you do. If you say that your last name used to be Ballikker and you couldn’t wait to marry your husband and become a Lopez, I really don’t blame you. If you explain that you want you, your husband and your kids to have the same last name, I can ask you if you ever considered using your last name instead. But when you tell me that you did it because you just love him so much and you’re so proud to be Mrs. Whatever because you’re just so proud of him and oh just wait until you meet the right guy, you’ll see, you’ll change your mind too? I kind of want to take a branding iron to your face.

I believe that you love your man, and I’m sure that you’re proud to be his wife, but the implication is that I don’t (or won’t) love my husband as much. If I did, I’d be tripping over myself to take his name. Or that my well thought out ideas of this whole thing, my personal opinion and decision, will mean nothing when I do finally meet the right guy. I take great offense to that. I can love someone, I can be proud of them and not want to change my name. Please don’t assume that I will change my mind just because you did.

[Before I go any further, I should include a disclaimer. I know that people learn and grow and change over time, so I’m fully aware that I, in fact, might change my mind for a multitude of reasons. But your assumptions only demonstrate that you don’t think I’ve given this serious thought, and that my friend, makes you wrong.]

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In a related story, a few weeks ago a friend said something similar to me. She said, essentially (with no prompting whatsoever - we weren’t even talking about this!): “I used to be like you. I used to think that stuff about keeping your name was important, but then I met Whoever and it didn’t matter anymore. I’d be proud to be Mrs. Whoever, and now I know all that stuff just isn’t important. You’ll see.”

I told her that she was wrong, that that is not the reason she is going to change her name. I may have been brash, but I told her that the real reason is that it’s a tradition of our culture. A lot of people who are in love get married and don’t change their names. Or they hyphenate, or they do a number of other things. They are no less proud or in love than you. If that’s really the reason, then why isn’t he taking your last name? Does he not love you that much? Is he not that proud to be your husband?

In a neutral world where there was no history of this custom, a couple who loved each other greatly and planned to get married might have a conversation about wanting the same last name. And they would discuss what to do—both have his, both have hers, both have both, create something new? And they would figure out together what is the best solution for both of them. Without bias, without preconceived notions, without the pressure of tradition, without the expectations of society, without blinders on. Did my friend have that conversation with her fiancé? No, I know for a fact she did not. And why not? Because we don’t live in that neutral world. We live in a culture that tells us women take their husband’s name, and even if you think you might not want to, it’s something you do for love. Just wait, you’ll see.

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Maybe part of the reason I feel so strongly about keeping my last name is that my own mother has changed hers seven times. She’s had some bad luck with marriage. Of course I wouldn’t get married unless I planned to make it work forever—I’m not planning on divorce—but I’ve seen the reality and so yes, it makes me wary. Let me just demonstrate for you what my mom’s name roller coaster has been like in the last 47 years (names have been altered obviously):

McElm to Wade to McElm to Dodd to Wade to McAlp to McElm to Huizenga

Yes the real McElm and McAlp names sounded that similar, and yes she changed her name to match her children’s (”Wade” – my dad’s last name) after her second divorce. The point is that somewhere in all of this, she kind of lost her identity. She has had so many different names that she doesn’t have any real connection to any of them anymore. Her newest name doesn’t fit her at all in my opinion, and even though she seems to have finally met the right guy, I don’t know if the final name change was really necessary. And even though she doesn’t seem that connected to any of her previous names, the one that seems the most genuinely her, the one that seems the most natural, is McElm, her original name.

I don’t want that to be me. I don’t want to be this and then that and then this again. I know, I know, if I get married it should be forever and that won’t matter. But the name that fits me, the name that represents me and feels like home is mine. I don’t want another one, no matter how much I love someone.

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The final thing that I’m thinking about while I’m on this topic is this idea of the last name as a gift. I read on a message board recently that a woman’s fiancé had always planned on “giving his name to his wife” and that he felt like this was an important gift that she was rejecting by keeping her own name. That seems silly to me. I know he genuinely thinks it’s a gift because he’s probably been taught all along that it is. That someday he would meet the right girl and he would give her his name, and that he shouldn’t give that away until he meets the right woman. Huh, kind of like how girls are taught to save their virginity and only give it to the right guy. Why do you get the gift of my vagina and I get the gift of your name? Well, I don’t want it. So I’m sorry that your gift is being rejected but maybe you should have gotten to know me and my preferences better before deciding what kind of gift to give me. I’d much prefer a trip to Europe. Why isn’t that a tradition? The customary free trip to Europe when you get married? Instead of marking on your marriage license what your new name is, you mark where you’d like to travel: Czech Republic, Ireland, Italy, Poland?

The worst thing I’ve heard is this idea of women having to earn their future husband’s last name. One guy I know says that he basically demands that his fiancé take his last name. If she doesn’t want it, then she doesn’t need to marry him. Or I’ve heard of guys who say their girlfriend needs to change something about herself—her looks, her behavior, her opinions—before she can be allowed to carry the Whatever name. And what bothers me more is that women go for this! Oh okay, I so badly want to be Mrs. Whatever, I’ll shape up. I’ll change myself, just please please please give me the gift of your last name.

I better stop, I’m getting very sarcastic and people are going to start getting annoyed. Wait, is anyone even still reading? If you are, I’d love to hear your thoughts on this. You can disagree all you want (and I really do respect your choice to change your name if that’s what you’ve done or want to do, this isn’t an attack on you or your decision), as long as you don’t call me bad names. I might even allow that if the bad names are framed by intelligent, thought-provoking words.

It’s been a week and a half since Brad moved out. The first week wasn’t very realistic though because Brad was in and out a few times to get what remained of his stuff. Plus Robin was gone all week, so roommate living hadn’t quite started. But I have been able to make a few observations about the new arrangement so far. Some good, some bad, some kind of strange.

Good
- I can buy what I want at the grocery store. I bought some new things on Sunday that Brad never wanted to try.
- I don’t have to coordinate meals with anyone. I swear we were never hungry at the same time.
- My milk lasts longer. In the past Brad would finish his Vitamin D gallon and then steal from my fat free milk before he got around to buying more.
- (Why are all the good things relating to food?)
- I yank and tug and twist the covers in bed to my exact comfort with no concern for anyone else!

Bad
- Computer problems need to be solved over the phone.
- It’s now a twenty minute drive to see my boyfriend. I don’t have that kind of time but on weekends.
- I now have the bathroom with the tiny stall shower and I HATE IT!
- There’s nobody around to kill insects and spiders.
- There’s nobody around to open the hard-to-open things. Though Robin did get a stubborn cap off for me last night, so next time we’ll see if that’s just a fluke.

Strange
- Apparently he makes his bed every morning now. He was always the last one up when we lived together, yet the bed never got made (which I actually prefer). But now… his is always made.
- I’m still not sleeping well. I thought with his loud breathing gone I might actually get some sound sleep. Not yet.
- I still walk around in my underwear a lot even though I have a roommate. Good thing Robin doesn’t care. (And yes, she does it too. I know I just turned you all on.)

Also, thanks to everyone for the nice things you said about this situation. It’s hard to admit something isn’t working right, but you all made me feel like we really did make the right decision. The words ‘logical’ and ‘mature’ and ‘sensible’ were thrown around too, so of course those didn’t hurt either.

Wednesday was a perfect summer day in Michigan, so in the afternoon I decided to check out the Riverwalk downtown. It’s about a two-mile trek, but it took me almost two hours because I was taking pictures and checking things out and stopping to sit in the sun along the way. It was lovely.

But when I was about an eighth of a mile from finishing the loop I was suddenly attacked by a bird. A mother fucking little piece of shit bird. It was one of those little red-winged black birds that I used to think were pretty.

The first time it dive-bombed my head, I wasn’t sure what was happening, so I brushed my hair with my hand and kept walking. But the bird kept loudly squawking above me and flapping around like crazy. Then it came down and hit my head full force! This time I screamed like Carrie Bradshaw and started running. The guy walking 15 yards ahead looked at me like I was a maniac, and when I explained that the bird was attacking me (while running at him and violently shaking my head and arms), he was unmoved and just kept walking. Meanwhile the little bird bastard was still squawking and flapping above me. He didn’t come at me again, but he didn’t chill out until I was well out of his zone.

Wikipedia explains:

The Red-Winged Blackbird can be very aggressive while defending its territory. It will attack much larger birds, such as crows, ravens, magpies, hawks, and osprey if they enter.

Uh yeah. What the hell dude, I’m not an osprey. And the Riverwalk is not your territory. You can totally live there, but I wasn’t trying to move in on you. I was just trying to walk through. Back off.

Also, apparently this bird is an omnivore:

It feeds primarily on plant materials, including seeds from weeds and waste grain such as corn and rice, but about a quarter of its diet consists of insects and other small animals.

I think to that they might want to add “human head” to the list.

I used to scoff at people who had a fear of birds. They always explained that they thought the birds were going to attack their head. Haha yeah right, how silly. Birds don’t do that. But now I know.

YES THEY DO!

My long weekend sure didn’t feel long, it just felt busy. Friday we went to Jackson (where B’s family lives), ate at my favorite pizza joint, visited my favorite ice cream place and saw some fireworks. Saturday we attended a summer backyard party with some friends and then headed home. On Sunday Brad moved out.

He packed up all his stuff and moved into a new apartment about 20 minutes away. This makes sense since my friend Robin moved in the previous weekend, and as spacious as the as our apartment is, there’s really not room for three people. One of us had to go.

Actually, this has been planned for awhile. A few months actually. It was back then that I sort of had an epiphany: maybe Brad isn’t my future husband. Maybe he is. But maybe he’s not. And what if I spend another year or two, on top of the three I’ve already spent, thinking that he is and dedicating myself to this relationship, and then he decides he doesn’t want to spend his life with me? We both know that marriage isn’t a real option until we’re done with school (or even longer, most likely), but I have long considered Brad my future husband. It was just about timing and getting things in order.

But it suddenly became apparent that maybe Brad wasn’t entirely on the same page. The realization came about because I presented Brad with this scenario and I asked him if he could decidedly say that I was who he wanted to be with forever. Did he know that I was the one? Was he ready to commit to that notion? Was he ready to start living life as a “we”? The answer was basically no.

Right now Brad is trying to finish school so he can find a good job and then start his life, and even though I think his personal goals can be folded into our mutual goals, he wants to focus on himself right now. He’s not ready to say for sure that this thing we’ve got going is a forever thing. He’s not ready yet to adjust his life in the ways required for us to one day, eventually, get married.

It’s not that I want to get married right now (I don’t at all), and I don’t even want to be engaged right now. That’s not it. Here’s the bottom line: there is a way you live your life when you are committed to the future of a relationship and there is a way you live your life when you’re just a girlfriend or boyfriend (and no this has nothing to do with sex in case you think ‘committed’ can only mean not having sex with other people). I want to start living our lives like the former, Brad is content living our lives like the latter. And that’s why there needed to be a change.

So here were the options: continue living with a guy who is not committed to the future of our relationship, or have him move out. I chose what I think is the lesser of two evils. I don’t like either option, but since he thought moving out was a good idea too, that’s what we decided would happen.

We’re still together though. The thing is, we love being together. He’s a really great person to be with, but I just can’t give it everything I have like I was before. I can’t be in a committed relationship with plans for the future if he’s not in it with me. But I don’t want to lose a great boyfriend just because he may not be my future husband. Brad is a good boyfriend, he’s just not a good life partner right now. And since I’m in no hurry to be married at this stage of life, I’m going to keep the good boyfriend around. He just won’t be around quite as much…

I don’t know if this is the right decision. Maybe I deserve better and I should ditch him now and start living the single life. Or maybe I can’t expect anything better and I should be lucky to have such a good guy even if he doesn’t want to commit to our relationship just yet. I really have no idea, so I’m just doing what feels right for right now, and we’ll see what the future brings.

I want to do this. Quit everything and travel around the world for a year. I know everyone wants to do that, but I really do. In a year when I finish my graduate program I could totally quit everything I’ve got going on right now and just go. That gives me a year to save up money and make plans. I know it’s not exactly spontaneous, but it’s better than nothing.

There are so many places I want to go, and it seems like there are never enough vacation days to do it all. And of course there’s never even kind of enough money. I’m always yearning to go go go. Somewhere, anywhere, everywhere. But it’s not very often that I actually go. So I want to do this.

Problem is, I don’t want to do it alone. I know I could. I could travel the world alone and it would be fine. But I don’t want to. I want to make plans and make decisions and experience it all with someone else (or more than one someone, that’s cool too). Wouldn’t it be fun if a small group of bloggers who became friends online all decided to get together and travel the world for a year? Even six months, I could handle six months. I think that’s a great story. I really want to do this!

So who’s with me? Who’s gonna do this with me?

(If you’re not a blogger friend but someone I know in real life, I’d love to do this with you too. Feel free to speak up.)

Things are a little wacky around here right now. This website I mean, not my life. Well that too, but I don’t want to talk about that right now. So the website… Brad is moving me over to a new host (or something, I don’t know) and for some reason the header reverted back to an old design. Sorry about the reminder of snow and ice in the middle of summer.

My email isn’t working right now either, and who knows what will happen with comments and links and all that. We are Brad is working diligently to get it all straightened out, and hopefully everything will look and act normal soon. Maybe even better!

Last month Brad helped me discover a new website for avid readers. If you like to read but hating spending a lot of money on books, you might appreciate this. If you don’t like to read but enjoy watching movies (and again don’t like spending a lot on DVDs), you might also appreicate this. If you don’t read and don’t care much for movies, then feel free to, I don’t know, check your myspace or something.

It’s called PaperBackSwap, and it’s basically a way to get free very cheap books. Here’s what you do:

1. Sign up for an account.

2. Go rummage through your bookshelves and closets and such and dig up any books you’re willing to part with.

3. Enter all the books into your account (it’s simple - they walk you through it).

4. If you enter 10 books right away, you get two free credits.

5. Think of some books you’ve been wanting to read, but haven’t wanted to spend $12-30 on.

6. Search for those books on the website.

7. Order those books.

8. A couple weeks later, the books come in the mail. FREE!

Now it’s not totally free, don’t be deceived. Whenever someone decides they want one of your books, you have to ship it to them. On your dime. But you get to pay media mail prices, so it’s about $2.50. And every time you send a book, you get a credit to order another one for yourself. Basically you’re paying about $2.50 for each book, which is better than almost any used book store. Plus, less work! Shipping books is easy too. When you get ready to send it out, PBS gives you a label to print. You wrap the book in the sheet of paper, add postage and send it off. If you use stamps or if you pay a small fee for PBS to add postage, you can just drop it in the mailbox. Otherwise you have to go to the post office. Which, yuck. I used stamps.

When your book is received, the receiver has to let PBS know, and then you get your credit. Ta-da! Just like that. It really does work.

If you do decide to sign up, let me know and I’ll give you my email address so you can list me as your referrer. That way I get free credits. Yes, I’m greedy. But I’m using a different email address than the one listed on my contact page, so if you just want to sign up and not list a referrer, I totally don’t blame you.

I’ll just hate you forever.

No I won’t.

Now go swap some paperbacks already!

I was sitting in the car, on the phone with my dad. It was a nice day so I rolled down the windows and talked to him in the parking lot rather than try to fight traffic while chatting. The sun was bright, so I put the visor down to block it. The mirror on the visor was open so I was staring at myself while we talked. I was studying my complexion, noting the errant hairs near my eyebrows, counting the freckles that always show up on my nose in the summer. I was looking at my teeth, inspecting their cleanliness, when I noticed them. Wrinkles. Smile lines. Little creases between my nose and the corners of my mouth. Hardly noticeable, but there nonetheless.

I don’t so much mind having smile lines if that is in fact what they are. I hope it means I’ve done a lot of smiling. But I was kind of hoping the wrinkles would hold off until my 30s at least. I think what freaks me out the most is that wrinkles are permanent. I have problems with permanent.

I’ve been putting off getting my Z tattoo because I can’t decide where I want to permanently ink myself. The idea of settling in and living or working in one place “for life” makes me squirmy. I don’t even like to use permanent marker!

A wrinkle isn’t like a zit that will eventually go away. It’s not a bruise that eventually fades or a cut that eventually heals. It’s not a bad haircut that will grow out or a rash that will clear up. It’s there. Forever. That wrinkle next to my nose will be there tomorrow and next month and next year. It will be there when I’m 30 and 40 and 50 and 80. That very same wrinkle. There will be others as time goes on of course, but that wrinkle that I discovered while sitting in my car, talking on the phone, that same one will be there forever. When I’m an old lady I’ll look at the wrinkle – it will be much larger and deeper then – and remember when it first showed up, back in my 20s.

I promised myself that I would try to embrace aging as it comes, but the idea of being unable to do anything about those two little wrinkles, except watch them get more prominent, kind of makes me uncomfortable. Maybe I should name them, maybe then I’d think of them as friends who I’d like to see stick around. I can greet them in the morning and be proud as I watch them progress. Maybe I could even teach them tricks.

So what’s a good name for a wrinkle?

Help me solve a mystery. So far, this is what we know:

• I put my beach towel on top of my bag while packing for my weekend trip.

• The beach towel was on top of the bag when I carried it from my apartment to my car on Friday afternoon.

• The beach towel was no longer on top of the bag when I carried the bag from the car to the cabin Friday evening.

• The bag did not leave the back seat of my car on the ride from the apartment to the cabin.

• Family members and friends do not remember seeing the beach towel.

• The beach towel was never found on the cabin premises.

• The beach towel was also not found at the apartment.

• The beach towel was also not found at my mom’s house where I stopped on the way.

Where is the beach towel?

It is truly a mystery to me. At first I figured it would turn up eventually, but by the time we were leaving to tube down the river, I was severely aggravated by its mysterious absence. There was swearing. And yelling. But seriously. WHERE THE HELL IS MY DAMN BEACH TOWEL?

It was basically brand new, only used a couple times. It was a gift and it was the only one I had. I’m too stubborn and cheap to go buy a new one because I know my beach towel is out there somewhere in the world, and paying money for another one just hurts my heart too much.

Any idea where it could be? Is there something I’m missing, something I’m not thinking of? Did Bill and Ted travel to 2008, steal my beach towel and bring it back to 1989? Did our housekeeping ghost decide it needed to be laundered before I used it? Maybe I should check the dryer…

This weekend my family and I went up to a little cabin in the woods. It was actually my sisters, their boyfriends, some of their friends, me and my mom (Brad was busy and missed out). It was a tiny little cabin with no electricity or running water, but we spent most of our time around the campfire anyway. Friday night I didn’t get any sleep because half of the group stayed up until past 5am, keeping me unwillingly awake with them. Mom and I ended up leaving Saturday night because I had to get some sleep and I knew it wouldn’t happen if we stayed there again.

None of that is the point of this story though. The point is that on Saturday we rented some tubes to float a river for a few hours. I was so excited because it had been years since I did that, but now, on the other side of that trip, I can safely say that I’ll probably never want to go again. It wasn’t horrible, but it was probably the least relaxing thing I’ve ever done. I had visions of chilling in a tube, drinking a beer while the current quietly carried me down the river.

Not at all what happened.

Misadventure #1
We created two “pods” of tubes so we could stick together. Pod 1 – my pod – consisted of two double-seater tubes, five single tubes, eight people and one fully stocked cooler tied together with rope. We were large and quite unmanageable. It’s impossible to steer something like that, so we were basically never where we wanted to be. Always hung up on a fallen log, stuck in a bank, floating over large rocks or under overhanging trees. And those overhanging trees? FULL. OF. SPIDERS. When I went canoeing a couple years ago on the same river, I had a traumatic encounter with a spider tree, which I had kind of forgotten about until I was back on the river. And then it was too late. I spent the whole trip desperately trying to avoid these trees, and at one point I dove out of my tube and on top of my sister’s boyfriend’s six-year-old daughter to dodge a particularly spidery one. Seriously not relaxing.

Misadventure #2
About half an hour into the trip I saw a little animal swim across the river a hundred yards ahead of us. Aww, cute little animal. A few minutes later Pod 2 yelled back at us to watch out for the woodchuck – apparently they can be aggressive. We made our way to where the woodchuck was spotted and we lifted our feet just in case, but we weren’t really worried. Until suddenly the motherfucking woodchuck surfaced less than two feet from us. Without a bit of exaggeration I can say that the big furry beast was just out of arm’s reach from me when it surfaced and then dove back under. I saw every hair on its broad back. I may have made eye contact. Not so much a cute little animal by the way. This thing was as big as my sister’s yellow lab. It would have been fine if we could have just floated right past it, but instead we were stuck behind a fallen log. Try as we might, we could not get past the log without sticking our legs in the water, which none of us were willing to do with a giant killer woodchuck swimming below us.

While the rest of us tried to keep our limbs and asses from touching the water, my sister Emily was finally brave enough to jump in and pull us around the log. But then she lost her hat, so my sister Kelli had to jump in to save the hat while Emily saved us. Thankfully nobody was mauled by what one of the guys described as “a fucking bear in the water.”

Misadventure #3
But none of this is even the worst part of the trip. All day the weather was gorgeous, and even though we knew there was a small chance of rain, we weren’t concerned. A little sprinkle wouldn’t hurt. When we saw the storm cloud and heard it rumbling though, we knew we were going to get hit with a little more than rain. The guys at the rafting company told us to go left at the fork in the river and our exit was at the first road overpass after that. The first raindrops fell just as we came to the fork, so we figured we’d be out of the river before it got bad. But then it started down pouring, the kind of driving rain that stings your skin. It was so cold that we were all shivering violently.

And then it started to hail. Yes hail. Marble-sized chunks of ice pelted our bodies. So now it’s raining, it’s hailing, it’s freezing cold and the wind picks up. We have no idea how much farther we have to go and the little girl is scared to death. Andrea held onto her while her dad did his best to shield her with his body. Then we see lightening. We’re in the water and there is lightening striking nearby. The river is warmer than the air (what with the HAIL and all!), so it’s a choice between getting in the water with lightening nearby or staying above the water where it’s bitter cold.

About half an hour after the whole thing started, we finally see the bridge. As soon as we get out of the water, the rain lets up, but then it’s a quarter mile hike down a muddy path in bare feet, carrying heavy tubes and coolers. After the rain it was gorgeous and warm, so we spent the ride back to the cabin baking in the sun, which was magnificent. In the end, nobody got hurt so it really wasn’t that bad. But in the middle of the chaos, I looked at my sister and said, “This is what we’re doing right now. This is our life at this moment – floating down a river while it’s raining and hailing and lightening. How did this happen?” But at the same time I kept thinking that soon it would all be over and we’d have a great story to tell.

Edited to add: After some research, I determined that the woodchuck may have in fact been a beaver. This is no less discomforting.

One time Brad and I talked about which identifying marks we’d use if ever we had to identify each other at the morgue. Like if our faces had been eaten off and we had to rely on birthmarks or scars to recognize each other. I can’t remember what we decided for Brad (so hon, don’t die and get your face eaten off until we’ve talked about this again), but I do remember mine. It’s pretty obvious: my freckle patch.

Maybe you’ve noticed it in pictures before and wondered, what the hell is on her arm? I get that all the time. Especially after a long winter when I start wearing short sleeves again. Suddenly there’s this splotch on my arm that has been hidden for months, and everyone’s curious. You know that look you get when you’ve got something in your teeth? People try to look you in the eye, but they keep glancing down? They think they’re being subtle, but the eye shift is pretty obvious every time they sneak a peek at your mouth? Well that’s what I get, only they’re looking at my arm.

Here, you can see it in this picture:

Did you catch that? Here it is a little closer (ignore the fat rolls and chubby arm please, focus on the freckles):

There’s no explanation for the freckle patch, it’s just, well, a patch of freckles. I have random freckles scattered all over my body, as do all my sisters (thanks for that Dad), but it’s as if all the freckles on my right arm forgot to spread out. They were born, and then they were supposed to migrate, but nobody told them, so they stay there huddled together.

I’ve tried to count the freckles many times, and so have lots of other people – I think it’s somewhere around 30, but everyone comes up with something different. Depends if you count certain splotches as one or two, and if you count the really tiny ones that look like pin pricks. At first, most people think it’s a faded temporary tattoo. Others say it looks like henna. My dad thinks it’s funny to lick his thumb and pretend to try to wipe away the “dirt” on my arm. He does this nearly every time I see him and has been since I was little. It’s one of my favorite ongoing jokes.

I’ve tried to get certain other people to have the exact same splotch tattooed on the same place of their arm, kind of like a “friendship” tattoo, but so far nobody’s going for it. Brad said if we ever get married, he might consider it, which is really saying something since he’s sooo not a tattoo guy. It’s not as crazy as having my name tattooed across his shoulder blades (hello Mr. Mariah Carey), but I think it’d be a true sign of commitment. Because otherwise how do you explain why you tattooed a freckle patch on your arm?

Most people won’t ask me about it. They not-so-subtly check it out while talking to me, but don’t dare to inquire. I don’t say anything about it either, even though it’s obvious they’re looking, but if someone asks me, I’m always happy to talk about my freckle patch. I think it’s really cool and unique – it’s one of my favorite distinguishing marks. And it’s definitely a really good way to identify me if I ever end up faceless in a morgue.

(Except, what if my face and my right arm are eaten off? Then what? Then you look at the fourth toe on my right foot. But I’ll have to tell you about that one later…)

About six weeks ago I wrote about a scary syllabus I had gotten for my first session summer class. I was dreading that course, dreading the work, dreading the many hours of sitting in a windowless classroom on warm summer evenings. But many of you said that I might actually end up enjoying this class.

Well smarties, you were right. So far, it’s the best class I’ve taken in the program. The professor had high expectations of us, but it’s because he truly wanted us to learn. And I did! I was really interested and engaged in the material, the discussions were interesting, and my classmates were fun.

Tuesday was the last class and the majority of us went out for a drink afterward, along with the professor. It was a really good group and I’m a little sad it’s over. Actually no, I am really glad it’s over because I’m one step closer to my degree, but I kind of wish I had taken this class during a full semester and taken one of the crappier classes for only six weeks.

I start my second session course next week. I haven’t seen the syllabus yet, but I hope it’s not as intense. Yeah I know, I just said I learned a lot from an intense course, but I’m tired and I really do want to enjoy my summer. Fortunately about half the students from the first class are taking the second one with me. I’m counting on them to get me through it!

I wrote about my mom on Mother’s Day, and since my dad is pretty amazing as well, you should know about him too. He’s a little bit Forrest Gump, a little Chandler Bing, a little Steve Martin, and there’s this other part of him that can’t be described by naming a celebrity or pop culture character.

He’s simple, he’s humble, he’s adventurous and he’s hilarious.

His whole life he wanted nothing more than to be a mountain man. He moved to Montana right after high school, but came back to Michigan when he found out my mom got pregnant during one of his holiday visits home. At age 20 he married her and by age 28 he had fathered five kids. He left my mom soon after that, and while that part of life was hard for all of us, I don’t doubt that he never stopped loving us. If we weren’t number one in his life, he would have moved back to Montana a long time ago.

For a long time he vowed to go to my youngest sister’s high school graduation with a truck full of gear because he was driving west right after the ceremony. Instead, he had his sixth child about five years before that graduation, and now he’s married with two kids under the age of ten.

He’s got five daughters and two sons, he’s worked at the same place for almost 30 years, he drives a pickup truck with crank windows and a stereo that doesn’t even have a cassette-player (by choice). He is not a typical dad—you can’t get away with buying him a grill or golf balls or sports paraphernalia or a tie. Actually you can’t get away with buying him much because he doesn’t like a lot of attention or gifts. Though he does hold on to every damn thing that crosses his path. Anything you need, he’s got three in his garage.

My dad insists on humor in our family, he is welcoming to anyone we bring home, he’s not afraid to make a fool of himself (actually he does it on purpose quite often), and he is a very deep intellectual, always observing and questioning what’s around him. That is something I have learned from him and hope to pass on to my kids someday.

Happy Father’s Day Dad!

So tell me, what the hell does this mean: I’m sitting at my desk at work today and somebody hands me a copy of The Power of Positive Thinking.

If you haven’t been keeping track, I started reading that book on Sunday. Then yesterday I officially gave up on it because it was frustrating and basically unhelpful to me. And then today it shows up on my desk again.

Now the logistics of the thing really aren’t that odd, don’t let me fool you. I work for a library and even though I don’t work in an actual library branch, we get this special service where you simply select a book you want in the online catalog and a couple days later, voila! it shows up on your desk. Plus no late fees, so for a book lover, it’s a big perk of the job. I put practically no effort into getting books these days. I think what happened is I accidentally ordered the same book twice: the first one got to me at the end of last week, the second one took a little longer to travel here.

But you have to admit it’s a little weird that I publicly denounced this book, and the very next day it shows up again. What does that mean? Should I just walk over and return the book again, or should I interpret this as a sign that there really is a gem in there that I need to discover?

It might be a little bit like torture trying to read through the book in search of this gem, but I’m going to choose to take this as a sign and at least hold on to the book for awhile. Maybe I’ll pick it up someday when I’m bored, flip to a random page, skim a few paragraphs and stumble upon something that’s not totally gag-worthy. Maybe it will even be inspiring.

Probably not, but hey, think positive right?

God I can’t believe I’ve dedicated three fucking blog posts to this damn book now!

When I was a kid, one of my favorite icons was Strawberry Shortcake. She went away for awhile as I got older, but I was thrilled when she started getting popular again. I like that my niece and my seven year old sister know about my old pal. I’d rather have them covet Strawberry Shortcake merchandise than that god awful Bratz crap. Strawberry is an icon from my childhood, so I was sad to read that they’re updating her look. Lately she’s been seen in jeans and doo rags, but apparently she’s getting an even more modern look. She’s getting rid of Custard the cat and replacing the kitty with a cellphone and a flat iron.

Can’t anything ever just stay the same?