I WILL WRITE IN HERE

I know,  I'm awful and haven't written in like, two months. Which I am trying to work on, really, I am. I've got some writing projects in the works that I will write more about later.

I WILL DO BETTER. 

Anywho, fall is here, and I thought I would share a few blog posts I have written lately for this AWESOME nonprofit online magazine that is near and dear to my heart called Libero Network.  I'm passionate about female empowerment and women's/teen girl issues, and Libero Network is a wonderful site that focuses on many issues that girls (and guys, for that matter) deal with, including anxiety, depression, eating disorders, etc. I've recently had the amazing opportunity to serve as the site's Assistant Editor/Community Blog manager, and it's been such a great learning experience for me. Reading contributor's submissions is mind-blowing. Everyone has a story, and so many are fighting inner-battles that they WIN. Every SINGLE day. The strength of people astound me.

Below are links to three of my posts--originally posted on Libero Network. It'd be cool if you, you know, read them. I'd like that.

Lindsay's Blog Posts on Libero Network:

 You Don't Have to Do Everything

Holes and Scars

Defining You


And I am going to write in here more. So I hope you read it. This blog. I find I write more easily if I feel I am writing for someone.

So there's that.

xoxo (I got the xoxo part from Gossip Girl, which probably has contributed to my lack-of-writing in here just a teeeeeny bit, I admit).

-Lindsay

Blazer

Blazer didn’t bark. Tonight, when I ran up my parent’s driveway, Blazer didn’t bark.

He always used to bark. I didn’t even notice I noticed the bark until the bark was gone.

A German Shorthaired Pointer, Blazer was our outdoor dog, my dad’s hunting dog (or attempted hunting dog, rather), so he mainly lived outside in his doggy kennel-slash-area. As much as his bloodlines and breed called for a more serious personality, Blazer was….a goof. Since he was a puppy, he ran with a bowleg, his right leg kind of jutting out like some type of puppy-paw wing. He chased frogs in our pond. He ate grass. Most of all, Blazer hated being away from my family.

If Blazer was running around our yard and one of us went inside, you could count to 30 and he was at the door, pacing, wondering why we weren’t outside. If my dad, my brother and I took our small fishing boat for an even smaller lap around our pond, Blazer would immediately jump off our dock into the pond to be near us. He’d frantically swim until his paws scraped the side of the boat and we pulled his wriggling, wet, speckled body out of the water and into our laps.

“Come on, Blazer!” we’d laugh. Blazer would pant, his mission accomplished, with his pink tongue and mouth shaped into a doggy-faced grin to prove his pride. He’d then scramble to the bow of the boat, standing like Jack from Titantic: “I’M THE DOG KING OF THE WORLD!”

Because he hated being left out, Blazer got upset every time I went for a run. I wanted to take him with me, but Blazer never really became a “run on a leash” type of dog. We tried a few times, but it turned into less of a run and more of a “Blazer drags Lindsay” type of workout. I settled for letting him play and run around the pond once I got back.

Every time I laced up my tennis shoes in the driveway, Blazer would perk his ears up and watch anxiously. “We’ll play when I get back,” I’d say as he cocked his head. Then, as I began to run, one foot in front of the other down our gravel driveway, he’d start:

“Yip, yip, yip!”

As a German Shorthaired Pointer, he should have bellowed rather than yipped, but this was his whiney bark. His “Where are you going without me?” bark. It was this same bark he used when I returned from the run. As soon as I reached the end of my driveway, not even in sight of him yet, I could hear him barking, as if to say, “You’re back, you’re back, you’re back!” And I would run just a little bit faster, straight to my dog, sprinting all the way, sweaty and tired as he slobbered all over me but I didn’t care because I was gross already and it didn’t matter, because it was amazing to have a living thing be so excited for me to come back.

Blazer died earlier this year of old age. This is my first summer running down the driveway without him. The first time the frogs are back in our pond but Blazer isn’t here to chase them.

And I miss him. I miss how happy he was to see me. I miss how goofy he was and loving and silly. I miss how he showed his emotions as a dog more openly and honestly than a lot of people I know.

I miss how much he loved me, my brother, our family.

So on nights like tonight, where I lace up my shoes in my parent’s driveway for old times sake, and my feet hit the gravel, right foot, left foot, right foot, left food, and I don’t hear the “yip, yip, yip, where are you going??” bark, my heart aches.

And on nights like tonight, when I come back from that run, it’s not just sweat running down my face; it’s tears. Ever since he passed away, I let the tears flow as I run down the driveway to nothing but silence.

It’s funny how you don’t even notice the habits, the small details that make a presence known, like a bark or a lick or a nudge from a wet nose, that suddenly make the world feel a little more empty, a little less happy, when its gone.  There’s a reason we have pets. There’s a reason we say dogs are “man’s best friend.” And I know I am lucky to have had such a good friend in my dog.

10 Travelers You Will See at the Airport

10 Travelers You Will See at the Airport

10. The Speedwalker:
Move that suitcase that you’re rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ to the gate or get steamrolled by the Speedwalker. Maybe they are overly excited to see whoever’s at the end of their Baggage Claimed Rainbow, but Speedwalkers are one second away from going all Super Mario hopped up on Star Power.

9. The Corporate Businessman:Has one or more of the following: Super Shiny Shoes (that get super-shined at the super shiny shoe booth); a Starbucks cup; a Blackberry used to echo Big Business Buzzwords like “strategic” and “connect later” or “engage offline.”

8. The College-Breakers:Usually in big groups during the months of December and March/April. Wears shirts that read RAGE or sweatpants that say PINK. Their sole purpose is to get drunk and make bad decisions because what happens in Vegas-Cabo-Cancun-Ft.Lauderdale stays there. Sure, it does. Sure. 

7. The Parent-and-Toddler Combo:
A sweet and Sour Patch-Kid mix of rebellion and anxiety, the toddler explores airport trash bins while the parent follows, scared his or her bundle of curious joy will be whisked away by a pedophile. Watch out for leashes on these kids, folks.

6.  The Person With A Thousand Things:Going through airport security can be stressful, but it’s an EXTRA LENGTHY, stressful process for Mr. or Mrs. Lots O’ Things. Not only do they need to take off their laced shoes, but their belts, their loads of jewelry, and unload the pockets, their laptop, the purse. There goes the liquids, then oops! they need the ID in the wallet in the pocket of the purse in that bin. Be patient, young grasshopper. Your time to take off your shoes will come.

5. The Fearful Flyer:
During take-off, the Fearful Flyers stare straight ahead or close their eyes to stop themselves from seeing the plane go up, up, and away because they are envisioning their lives spiraling down, down, down into flames. They can freak you out so much that you, too, will start to imagine your fiery, plane crash death. Watch out for white faces, sweaty palms, clenched arm rests.

4. The Talker:“What do you do?” “Are you from Oklahoma?” “Who are you visiting?” The Talker wants to know every aspect of your life and in turn, they can share a little bit too much of their own lives. Prepare yourself with headphones and a good fake-sleep strategy.

3. The Sleeper:The opposite of the Talker, the Sleeper is out cold before the plane even gets off the ground. Sleepers need to catch a few winks before conversing with the family they haven’t seen in 20 years in Nebraska. No complimentary pretzels or drinks for the Sleeper.

2. The Model:Get your cameras ready, because the Model believes the plane is not the only thing going down a runway. The Model struts down the airport terminal in six-inch heels and a mini skirt, wearing red lipstick that matches the color of the men’s faces as she walks by. Don’t trip on that moving sidewalk, girl. Werk.

1. The Sickee:

You hear The Sickees before you see them, all hacking cough and is-the-devil-coming-out-of-their-noses? sneezing. With their tissues and watery eyes, Sickees are probably a reason Howie Mandel won’t shake hands with people. Load up on vitamins ASAP after this flight. Orange juice is our friend.

Who's on First, What's on Second, and Lindsay is Angry at the Four-Way Stop

I got in a fight with an elderly man yesterday.

I’m not proud of it. But it happened.

To give the man credit, this fight had been brewing inside of me for a while.  An angry bear waiting to be poked. He just happened to be the one who poked the bear. “He” meaning the elderly man in the dark blue mini van at the four way stop on a Saturday afternoon.

I repeat: I’m not proud of it. But it happened.

It all started with a morning radio show. I was on my way to work and turned the radio on as I do, waiting to hear the weather and news amongst the too-many car dealership ads and catchy jingles (I do enjoy that Menards jingle, though. “Save big money at MENARRRRRRDS!”).

“You know what really gets under my skin?” the DJ said as I turned the radio volume up, settling in for the drive. “I get SO IRRITATED when people do that wave thing at four-way stops.”

“Wave thing?” his female co-host said, laughing.

“You know,” the DJ said, his voice booming. “The WAVE THING. The whole ‘You go first’ gesture. People always do that to me when I get stop after them, and it’s so annoying. It makes me mad.”

“Why would that make you mad?” the co-host asked. I swear she takes the other perspective just to keep the show going.  I guess that’s how radio shows must work.

“Because it messes up the whole system!” he shouted. “Don’t get to the stop sign after me, then just wave me along. There’s a law for a reason!”

That’s true, I thought, turning at a stoplight.

“Oh, come on,” the female DJ said. “They are being nice. I wave people along.”

“I get you are trying to be nice,” he continued, “but if you wave me ahead when you got there first, then how does ole Sally Stationwagon behind me know when SHE should go? It is a domino affect of confusion, not to mention you are increasing the chances of an accident.”

That is so true, I thought.

After the radio DJ’s rants, I began to notice the four-way stop wave happened to me, like, all the time. I would clearly get to a stop sign after a person, but yet they’d wave me ahead. I didn’t get it. Sometimes, I would do the wave back. But my wave was never insistent, more a half-hearted polite wave, a “No, it’s okay,” wave. So the driver would wave again, ignoring my gesture. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking, “They’re just trying to be nice and let me go first.” But as I drove on, I’d mutter, “I did not arrive there first.” The radio DJs comments had been burned into my brain.

And so, a new pet peeve was born.

This past week was the week of the wave ahead’s. Every time I approached a four-way stop, I was told to “go on,” either by nonverbal gesture or mouthed at me. One time as I was waved ahead, I was on the phone with my boyfriend. “I don’t get it,” I said, driving forward per the direction of a driver in a black Ford F-150. “Does my car look like it should just go first? Am I not assertive?”

My boyfriend laughed in response. “I know it. People do that to me all the time, too.”

The next time I am waved ahead when I shouldn’t be, I thought, I am going to wave back. I am going to be insistent. Yes. I will INSIST they go ahead.

 And that’s how I squared off with an elderly man in a blue van.

I was following a white truck on a back road. As he slowed to a stop, I followed suit behind him. Across from us, a man at the wheel of a blue van stopped shortly after the white truck in front me. He waved the white truck ahead.

Okay, I thought. Now he goes, then I go.

As the truck turned, I crawled towards the stop sign. The man sat idle, his glasses perched on his nose, his hand shaped like a claw as he waved for me to go on.

It’s time, I thought. Time to fight for my rights to go my rightful turn at the four-way stops within this state of Michigan. Fight for the DJs rants and my latest pet peeve and I WILL NO LONGER BE A NOT VERY ASSERTIVE DRIVER! So I stayed put.

He continued to wave. I felt awkward, like I was disobeying my grandfather. As his waves became more urgent, I thought, “No. He was here even a second before the GUY BEFORE ME.” I waved my hand slightly. The man shook his head no.

Insistent, Lindsay, I remembered. You must wave insistently. I sped up my wave, ignoring his own. I felt like freaking Clint Eastwood: “Draw!”  “No, you draw first!” and all that. White car vs. blue van.

Then I looked at my hand, moving rapidly as I continued to ignore this man. “What am I doing?” I realized how crazy this man and I must have looked, both waving each other ahead, neither of us moving forward.

“Oh, forget it,” I muttered. This is probably some giant life metaphor-lesson I can’t comprehend right now.

I reluctantly turned my car right, the blue van following behind me. As I drove, I thought to myself, “I just got in a fight with an elderly man about who’s turn it was to drive.” I shook my head. There are much bigger battles in this world to fight. I can stand on my Four-Way Stop Pedestal of Who Goes First, but fighting with an elderly man over it? That’s just a whole new low. Come ON.

I mean, I’m still down with the law and how to approach four-way stops. Then again, I get the kindness of a wave-ahead, too. I guess it isn’t black and white. But the next time I decide to stand my ground on something, I think it needs to be a bit more hardcore.

Plus that blue van man would never have backed down anyway.

Pick your battles, friends. Pick. Your. Battles. 

Miscommunications at the Outback

My family likes to go to Outback Steakhouse. 

I think every family has one, that go-to restaurant for celebratory circumstances, like when your brother graduates high school or it’s your mom’s birthday or you just got your braces off and it’s all, NO MORE METAL MOUTH, heck yes, let’s eat steak and a fried onion shaped like a flower!

So my family believes what better way to celebrate any occasion—even if that occasion is basic hunger—then at a restaurant amongst boomerangs and entrees with Australian names? We will totally put a shrimp on that Barbie.

It was at the Outback Steakhouse where a conversation of Massive Miscommunication proportions occurred between my parents and I. We’re talking Total widening of the Age Gap between Parent and Daughter.  One of those moments where you truly believe your parents should have been on a sitcom or something.

The Incident occurred last summer. My mom deemed the day Too Hot and decided a family trip to our go-to steakhouse would do us all some good. The booths were sticky on the backs of my legs and the air conditioning felt cool on my face. The restaurant had dimmed the lights—I always love when they do that, like it’s this collective mood-changer signaling customers to begin their whispers and stolen glances. The server had just delivered our Bloomin’ Onion appetizer. No seasoning, though. Too spicy.

I took a bite of the onion, drenching the fried greasy splendor into the horseradish-y sauce of goodness.

“Sis,” my dad said, spreading a giant glob of butter on a piece of bread. “Let’s touch ‘er off.” He held up his tan forearm, horizontally even with the table. Grinning, he nodded towards me.

When I went through a let’s-go-to-the-tanning-bed-tons phase in high school, my dad found it amusing that he was still tanner than me. Now he plays this  “Who’s arm is more tan?” game all the time. He always “wins”, I always “lose” and it doesn’t really matter anyway.  Unless one of us gets skin cancer.

“Oh, come on, Dad,” I said, rolling my eyes. But I held up my own arm next to his, as I always did, my skin literally paling in comparison to his deep brown hue, like milk next to honey.

“Beat you,” he grinned.

 “Whatever, Dad,” I said, using sarcasm to hide my smile. “ Just roll up your T-Shirt sleeve a little higher and let that farmer’s tan poke through. Let’s compare shoulders. Or calves. Then there’ll be a different winner.”

“Lillllyyy,” Dad sung, ignoring me. “Lillllyyyy whiitteeeee.”

Mom and I laughed.

“Mom, do you want to go shopping with me this weekend?” I said. The server stood by the table, passing out side salads.

“I don’t know, honey,” she said, spearing her lettuce. “Maybe. What do you need to go shopping for?”

“I’m going to buy some new summer clothes at TJ Maxx,” I said. “I don’t have anything to keep me cool in this dang heat. Thought you’d want to come. Mother/Daughter shopping day-kinda thing.” I took a sip of my Coke.

“Sure, if I don’t have to work,” Mom said. “I’ll have to check.”

My dad, who had been focused on eating his salad covered in Tangy Tomato dressing, chewed, then paused.

“Thongs are on sale at Old Navy,” he said.

I sputtered on my drink. Did he just say what I think he said?

 We weren’t that kind of family, as in, my dad was not the kind of dad that bought my tampons or talked to me about my girl issues. Let along thong purchases.  It just wasn’t a topic of discussion,  and it felt even more silly to hear the word “THONG” come out of my blue-collared, tough guy-father’s mouth.

“What?” I asked.

“Thongs,” Dad said, taking another bite of salad. “On sale. Old Navy.” He chewed.

I looked over at Mom, my eyebrows raised in confusion. Sensing this, my mom turned to my dad, as if she was a translator.

“Jim, honey,” she said. “You have to call them FLIP FLOPS. Not thongs.”

My dad swallowed.  I stared.

“But thongs, that’s what we used to call them,” he said.

“I know, but that’s not what the kids call them now. You have to say flip flops. Or sandals.”

“Well, thongs, flip flops, whatever,” Dad said.

 “Wait a second,” I said, processing what my mom said. “Dad, you mean flip flops? FLIP FLOPS are on sale at Old Navy?” I started to smile, realizing what he meant, what I thought he meant, and the giant gap of misunderstanding that felt as large as Australia itself.  I started to laugh.

“Yeah, what the heck did you think I meant?”

Now I was really laughing. “Oh my God. “THONGS. I thought you mean, like, you know. THONGS.”

“She thought you meant underwear,” my mom said in a matter-of-fact tone. Always the bridge between us troubled waters.

“Oh geez, no,” Dad said. “Those things are like floss.”

“So there are no undergarments on sale at Old Navy,” I clarified, still laughing.

“I already told ya,” my dad said, now re-buttering another piece of bread. “Thongs—flip flops, whatever the dang things are called—they’re going to be on sale.”

“Ok, Dad,” I laughed. “Okay.”

Consequently, thongs were also on sale at Victoria’s Secret that weekend. So it was a twofer, win-win, thong/flip-flop type of weekend. And I guess my dad was right. Technically.

Oy.

Happy summer, all. 

Old Dogs, New Tricks. And Grumpy Cats.

It is June, which means graduation party-season is in full swing. Along with observing the “Congratulations Graduate” cakes and school colored-helium balloons at grocery stores, I also have been reminiscing about my own transition from high school to college.

Time flies.

The day I moved into my dorm room at Central Michigan University, it was raining. Hard. I remember because I felt like it was an omen, but I was trying to pretend it wasn’t a sign. Rain meant good luck. It did.

There were four of us living in the dorm. I was the second person to arrive. And with my twin-sized flower comforter from Target, a green shower caddy and overly highlighted hair, I felt prepared. 

OK, that’s BS. I was scared. And no shower caddy could contain my anxiety. Or my nerves. But at least they’d be squeaky clean. And my Neutrogena shampoos and Plumeria shower gel would all be in one spot. Please don’t let me get a roommate that steals my stuff, I thought.

Facebook was a Brand New Thing back then. We're talkin' just one profile picture, no wall, and  "Looking For: Whatever I Can Get" was a relationship selection on your profile. In my reminiscing, I also found my First Facebook Profile Picture Ever. Behold, a wide-eyed Teen Lindsay. And proof I really did have overly highlighted hair:

As a country girl who graduated from high school with a whopping 87 kids, I had a right to be scared to go to college. I mean, we all have a right to be scared of anything new. But college? College is a whole new animal. It’s like…..hm. Let me think. OK, high school was a cat—maybe a grumpy cat, the kind of cat that hacks up hairballs and hisses at only you and no one else so everyone laughs when the cat walks near you. So it was a pain. But you figured out how avoid the cat’s bad attitudes, or play with the Lazer pointer, or rub it’s belly, but not on the left side because it hisses at you if you touch the left side.

But then you trade in the grumpy cat. And you get a cheetah.

If high school is the grumpy cat,  college is the cheetah. A fast freakin’ cheetah. With lots of spots. And it moves so fast, so it’s hard to keep up. But you have to. You have to. Or else you won’t make it—it will run you over. Or eat you alive, I suppose.  

Sorry. This is getting dramatic. Hold on.

Okay.

Hallmark cards refer to college as “the real world.” I suppose this is because you have to make yourself go to class. And the food isn’t homemade.  And you have to make your bed and do the dishes and vacuum and stuff. But I still think college, despite its cheetah-ness, isn’t quite the Real World.  You are in a bubble. A bubble of classes and dudes with flat-billed hats and girls with Tiffany’s jewelry and Coach bags.You are in a drunken haze of new experiences and UV Blue. You’re bumping at the 18 and up clubs, and grinding out papers about osmosis and nonverbal communication.

And you aren’t alone in any of it.  You’re “all-in-this-together”, High School Musicall tune-style. Sometimes the classes suck. Sometimes the professors suck. Sometimes the roommates suck.

But maybe, just maybe, they don’t suck. That you find a group of girls who you can have fun with for four years. That you discover this random BIO 101 class and LOVE it and go on to be this freakin' awesome biologist who, like, saves the whales or studies West Nile virus or publishes an awesome book on the proper nesting environment for bluebirds. And if that was or is you--the bluebird nesting person-- please get ahold of me because my mother is currently mourning the loss of our bluebird couple in the backyard. It's sad. 

Anyway.

College can be scary, but it also is a way to break down the walls. Try new things. Meet new people.  And of course it sucks at first. It’s new. It’s uncertain. We as human beings don’t always do well with new and uncertain. We are old dogs that constantly are thrust into new situations, and suddenly, we are puppies with no clue what the difference is between the water dish and the toilet bowl.

But we learn. And as pups, we are capable of learning new tricks. Especially if we aren’t alone in it all.

So, my dear upcoming college freshman, I say to you as you take your trips to Target and Bed, Bath and Beyond: college is a time to figure out who you are. So figure it out by trying.

On purpose.

Because you are a new pup. And it’s time to leave the grumpy cats behind.

And if you don’t drink out of the toilet bowl, you still may find your head in there once in awhile. It’s okay.

The Approach

He was beautiful. Standing there like a god, his posture intimidating, strut staggering, beard hanging. Dark and handsome, he looked good. Good enough to eat.

I stood in disbelief, staring, holding my breath as I attempted to admire from afar. I took a step forward, afraid to get too close. But I knew he wasn’t looking at me. Not truly looking, anyway. He was looking at Them.  A group of girls standing about 10 feet away.

Of course.

My gaze followed him as he took a few steps, showing more swagger than Mick Jagger and P. Diddy at the All-White Party, combined. With a side of John Mayer, I suppose. Because that dude has been with a lot of hot female celebrities.

As he walked—no, strutted—the girls in front of him stayed together. A pack of pretty, they looked unaware and uninterested.  Like they had no idea he was standing there. But that’s a trick. All females know when they are being watched. Even if we act like we don’t see, we see. Oh, we see.

He continued to walk forward, but I could feel his frustration--tangible, thick in the air—as the girls continued to ignore him. How could they not see him? Or care? I waited, counting the seconds because I knew it was coming. One, two, three…Wait for it…

He stopped, closer than ever to the group, who looked more disinterested than before, their backs turned, heads looking towards the ground. And then, like a magician unveiling a rabbit under his top hat, a wave of dark feathers opened like nature’s gift as he let out a loud, throaty gobble, urgent. As he stood, more puffed than a Corn Pop, his stance confident as if he was saying, “Hey, ladies. You like what you see? ”

Ole’ Turkey Tom was getting his pimp juice on. In my backyard.

And the hens weren’t havin’ it.

My parents live in the woods on 18 acres, so I’ve grown up around the Calls of the Wild, if you will. These days, my mom has gotten into bird watching, even buying a book called “Backyard Birds: Michigan”, and dog-earing the pages that showcase birds we have seen.  After seeing bluebirds nest in our boxed birdhouses, woodpeckers knock their noses against oak trees and robins lay blue eggs every year in the front yard spruce, I can honestly say that no bird has more swagger than that of the male turkey.

It’s comical to watch a male turkey try to get the attention of a pack of hens, especially because of how eerily similar it is to a gel-haired guy’s attempt to penetrate a pack of women in high-heels at a club Just replace the feathers with a tight Affliction tee or button down striped shirt, the throaty gobble with a smooth “You wanna a drink?” comment and the sunlight streaming in through the leaves with strobe lights and a crowded dance floor, and you’ve got yourself a Mating Call copycat scenario.

The male swagger is still there. The desperate “Look at me” is there. The girls trying to ignore and get tighter and tighter together when a dude approaches is there.

As I watched Turkey Tom become frustrated with his “I’m So Pretty” approach while the hens clucked away, I realized how many females –turkey or human or whatever—seem to travel in packs when it comes to attracting the opposite sex, while a guy goes at it alone or with one other dude. My boyfriend and I were recently swapping stories of college days and going out. I spoke of getting ready with the girls and our process for keeping the Creepers at bay, but he wasn’t all like, “Yeah, we got about 10 dudes together and then danced  and fistpumped and strategized.” Getting girls is a solo mission, while ladies are out doing their thang. Just like the hens.

And we seem to have the same strategies as the female turkeys do. Stay in a pack. Get close together. Do not make eye contact and appear unaware. You don’t see him, he’s not there, keep walking, keep talking. Sometimes them boys puff out their feathers or pump their fists. But it’s all in good fun. Good-natured fun.

And you gotta give it to Ole’ Turkey Tom. Swagger is key. So is persistence. So I will continue to watch him get his game on and maybe, just maybe, one day, he will find that lucky hen to break away from the pack.

The AIM Game

I am an 80s baby. Born at the tail end of the decade stonewashed and hairsprayed into history books, along with its pop culture princesses and Prince (No, literally, Prince: “I just want your extraaa timmmeeeee”).  Being an 80s baby means I have elementary school pictures where my bangs are teased, like, really big. I wore obnoxious, oversized headbands. With bows. A sweatshirt featuring neon Mickey Mouse faces. Shoes that lit up when I walked. We were the Cool Kids.

As we grew up, us 80s kids were on the frontlines as soldiers of the technology boom in the 90s. New communication channels emerged. We knew about the chat rooms with the creepy people that were all “a/s/l” and “Wanna cyber?” Which I feel creepy even typing.  We were there when the cell phones got smaller and the World Wide Web got wider. But before the days of text messaging and Facebook, there was one communication tool that, with one door opening, one door slamming, and one away message, could speak thousands of words:

AOL Instant Messenger. Or AIM, for short.

That little yellow running man with his buddy lists of heartbreak. Wherever he was going , we were behind him. All of us, with our angsty attitudes and our Mudd jeans, our adidasmoves cologne, our Lip Smackers. Our hormones. And AIM—a vessel where we could create a screen name and chat with eachother. Or rather, IM each other. We took great thought in creating our own screen names. Deep Introspection. It reflected our identity, after all. Our true selves.

Mine was DaddyzGurl66. With a z.

Back in my middle school years, I had a nightly ritual. I’d click on that AOL icon—like a Bermuda triangle, lost in a web of teen spirit---and wait for the dial-up to connect (“burrrr, burr, burrrrrrrrrrrr, whoosh of flurry noises). I’d sign in. I’d hold my breath as my buddy list loaded. And with a scan of screen names, I’d look for my Crush of the Week. Was he online? Away? Idle? And if he wasn’t online, when would that door open?! Once I heard a creak and see that crude or boyish screen name in bold (boy screen names usually included either a sports/band reference or the number 69), I would exhale with relief and inhale with excitement:

HE’S ONLINE!

And now, my friends, is when you let the game begin. You know the one. And if you don’t, here’s how the AIM Game was played:

STEP ONE: You wait.

You think, “I will not IM him or her first.”  You busy yourself with the other flashing IM windows or surf the ‘Net (because that was a slang term actually used by some people back then).

STEP TWO: Put up Cryptic Away Message. A cryptic away message is strategic. By putting up an away message, you are signaling to your Person of Interest that yes, you are actually at your computer. Because, you see, you were there to put your away message up. Usually with some cryptic N’Sync song lyric. Lots of ~*~*~  and <3s. Or even better, you copy and paste something a fellow buddy-lister said. WITH the timestamp and their screen name. That tactic always screamed, “Look, I am talking to people! And they are funny! So I am cool!” Also, I am online. So you can IM me.

STEP THREE: Take the away message off. Because the away message wasn’t used to actually signify you are away, come on now. It was to show you are there. But not there. BUT NOW IM BACK SO PLEASE IM ME.

STEP FOUR: You wait some more.  A different person IMs you—NO! YOU GOT MY HOPES UP! I THOUGHT IT WAS MY CRUSH OF THE WEEK! DANG YOU, BEST FRIEND, COOLCAT7234.

STEP FIVE: You IM your person of interest. Or, if the AIM Little Yellow Running Man Gods have smiled down upon you:

STEP SIX: Person of Interest IMs you. Signal the choir. Giddy butterflies. Gasps of relief. Inside you are thinking, “OHMYGOSH HI YES I AM SO GLAD YOU IM’ED ME” but instead, you:

STEP SEVEN: Wait. You can’t reply to your Person of Interest right away. That’s too eager. So after he or she IMs you, you wait at least 30 seconds. And even though you are really excited and want to say hiImreallygladyouIMedmeyoujustmademynight, instead you reply with:

hey

“Hey” is usually followed by some sort of “what’s up?” comment. Depending on your preference, it can be the traditional “What’s up?” Or “Wazzup?” Or, if you’re feeling really creative, a “Waz ^?”

Which then will prompt you to say some sort of not too much. An “n2m”. But do not forget to say “you?” after. This keeps the conversation going.

And after talking about school or practice or whatever—the whole time trying to balance the “I’m not replying too eagerly” with the “I am talking to you so I hope you don’t get offline,” the first person to leave will say “g2g”. This is when you hope it will be followed with a “ttyl.” A ttyl—talk to you later—signifies another AIM conversation in the future, which means you, lucky dog, get to go through the angst of door opening and who IMS who first all over again.

It’s all very complex, I know.  But that’s the AIM game.

My Heart is Jammin' For You

It’s not going to be like last year, I thought as I walked into the classroom with my Lisa Frank backpack.

No, I thought. This year will be the total OPPOSITE of last year. Because this year wasn’t fourth grade. This year was FIFTH grade. I was One of the Big Kids now. I had a year of knowledge under my neon orange Safety Patrol belt.  And with more maturity, less baby teeth and an idea, I was determined to win the fifth grade Valentine’s Day Box competition.

Since I, you know, sucked it up the year before.

 “Settle down, take your seats,” the teacher said. The school bell shrilled. I weaved around the chairs that Must Be on All Four Legs Always At All Times and sat down at my desk, opening the lid to find my Social Studies folder. I glanced around the room at my classmates. My competition.

Though I worked hard on my Valentine’s Day box the previous year, I didn’t win the fourth grade competition. Last year’s box featured red wrapping paper with dalmations, a slit at the top for kids to put in their valentines. The idea was for the box to look like an actual Dalmation—it had pink and white ribbons curled and taped to the back (the tail) and an awkward cutout of a Dalmation head on the front.

So it was a box covered in dalmations with a dalmation head. Puppy love, if you will.

I guess it did look a little weird.

Deep down, I knew I didn’t deserve the sweet taste of victory. I mean, there was a robot box covered in tin foil. And a Valentine Volcano, the whole “my love erupts for you” theme. So when I lost, I bit into my Reese’s Peanut Butter cup heart, hoping the sweet of the chocolate would cover up the sour look on my face. It didn’t do the trick.

Because nothing tastes as sweet as victory.

And let’s be honest, “Puppy Love” didn’t cut it. Not over a freakin’ robot box and love-erupting volcano.

So here I was, a year later, and tomorrow was our Fifth Grade Valentine’s Day party. My last shot at sweet, sweet success before I moved on to middle school, where the Cool Kids were determined and only people you were “going out with” gave you valentines. Whatever “going out” meant.

But that boyfriend-girlfriend, I love you forever, check yes or no stuff could wait until next year. This year was all about The Valentine’s Day Box.

Sitting in the classroom, I felt a sugar buzz just looking at the cupcakes and candy hearts on the counter, all pink-frosted and multi-colored, promising to “Be Mine” and “Luv U 4Ever.” (Candy hearts were like the first version of text message lingo).  The teacher said the treats were for tomorrow’s party and “not to touch today,” a unique type of torment for a classroom of ten-year-olds. I was antsy the entire day, just waiting for the bell to ring so I could put on my Safety Patrol belt of Power and Neon Orange and lead the little kids to their yellow bus. Then I’d be home to execute The Box. But I knew I needed some help.

When I got home after school, I found my dad in the kitchen. I had prepped him a few days earlier about the party and how each kid usually made a valentines box, but I hadn’t asked if he could assist in executing my idea.

“Hi Dad.”

“Hey Sis, what’s up?”

“Can you help me with something?” Pleasehelppleasehelppleasehelpnothingisasimportantasthisboxpleasehelp, I thought.

“With what?” he said. I shrugged my backpack off my shoulders, anxious.

“I need to make my Valentine’s day box for school,” I said. “I want it to be good this year. I have an idea, but I need help.”

“Oh yeah?” he asked, curious. “What’s kind of idea?” Um, only a genius one.

“I want to make a boom box,” I said. “Or, like, a CD player. You know—so they can put their Valentine’s into the box through the CD tray. Like putting in a CD. But a valentine.” So. Awesome.

 “A BOOM box?” Dad thought for a moment. I could see him imagining what we would need for this box. It was going to be a lot of work; I had already thought about it. We needed construction paper, Kleenex boxes, glue. An old CD tray. Time to put it all together.

“I don’t know, Sis,” he said. My face fell. “Can’t we just wrap a regular box? Put some ribbons on it?”

“That what I did last year, though,” I said. “I just need your help figuring out the CD tray-thing.” And putting it together. And cutting things.

Dad looked at me. I tried to open my brown eyes really big like a puppy, a trick I learned from cartoons. That always seemed to work for them.

“Okay,” he said, his voice getting higher at the end. “But I don’t know if I can make it look good.”

“Yes! Thankyouthankyouthankyouuu!” I said, dancing around the room like fifth graders do. Best Box Ever.  

Best Dad Ever.

It’s been fifteen years, and I still remember sitting on the floor of the kitchen on our forest green rug, my dad sitting across from me. Cutting out a slot for the tray. Two tissue boxes for the “speakers”, one shoe box for the main CD console. We covered the boxes in black construction paper, circles for the actual speakers and a cassette tape console. We even added an antennae by taped a tube covered in aluminum foil.  

My dad cut out a small jagged square in the box so I could get my notes of love and affection (sarcasm) from my classmates.

“Well, what do you think, Sis?” my dad asked. He liked it too; I could tell. He opened the CD tray; I slipped in a small sheet of paper to represent the valentines.

I stepped back and took a look. It looked good, exactly what I envisioned, but it was missing something. I stood, pondering. I know what it’s missing. I need to tell my classmates a message—it’s Valentine’s Day, after all.

“It looks great, Dad,” I said, excited. “But hold on, I’ve got to add something.” 

Dad watched as I ripped out a piece of white construction paper. I grabbed the pink and red Crayola markers and kneeled down, pondering for a second. Then, I started to write, alternating the colors of each word. Red, pink, red, pink. I cut the sentence out, flipped it over to put the purple glue on the back. I taped it to the front of the box, right above the cassette holder.

“Finished?” my dad asked.

“Yup!” I smiled.  My dad smiled. This box was awesome.

The next day, I brought my Valentine’s Day boom box in and set it on the counter amongst the other boxes. I was proud to see my and my Dad’s creation, there in its shoebox and construction-paper glory. I was proud to see my classmates open the tray and put the valentines in, see my scrawl with the phrase I so carefully wrote the night before:

MY HEART IS JAMMIN’ FOR YOU.

When I got third place instead of first—losing out to a box with legos standing on top of what looked like a giant love submarine—I didn’t care. My dad helped me with my project and that’s all the love I needed. My Boombox of Love. A heart jammin’ for me.

I still have the box. My mom wanted to throw it out when we moved to the New House, but I woudn’t let her. And my dad still have a bond over that box. I told him I was writing this blog and was hoping we could find it so I take a picture to showcase the Heart is Jammin’ For You Box.

We both tried to look for it in our basement, but it somehow has hidden away amongst the Beanie Babies and Barbies and tools and other tangible memories.

Celine Dion’s heart goes on. Some girl was tearin’ up N’Sync’s heart.

Mine is jammin’. Always jammin’.

The Airport

Happy 2013, y’all. Not sure if I’m allowed to say y’all, as I am from the Mitten instead of the South, but whatever. I have friends who live in the South. IT COUNTS.

As it is officially my first blog post in 2013, this year marks a few milestones:

1.  We survived The End of the World. Kudos.

2.  We also survived the news that Kim Kardashian and Kanye West are having a baby. Double kudos.  With a side of ass and autotune. Respectfully.

3.  It is FebruAny Sub month at Subway. Helllllo, $5 Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki sub. Goodbye,    Hot Makeout Session. Sorry ‘bout my breath.

4.  I quit Facebook.

5. A lot of new people were made and born this past year.  Which is funny to phrase, if you really think about it…New people were made. As if they are pancakes or pottery. And then there’s the whole mind-blowing notion that one second, a baby is inside a person, and the next, they are outside in the world. Like, BOOM goes the dynamite baby.

6. Number Six Milestone…..Hm.

7.  Um…*looks up at ceiling*

8.    …..Well. *thinks*

9.  OK, there are many other milestones, but I started this post back in January and cannot remember my train of thought. So I am ending on Odd Number 9. Sorry.

Note: If you want to share a 2012/2013 milestone, leave a comment down below, and I will add your milestone to this list. As long as you keep it appropriate, kids. Keep it appropriate.

And what have I been up to? Along with living life, eating too much ketchup on too many things and being awkward ALL. THE. TIME, I also have been traveling quite a bit. And what this Communication Major (i.e., I am a creeper on people and watch how they act and communicate and react to people-stuff) has found is that the airport is a total hot spot for people watching. Not like that was a big secret, as the airport attracts all walks of life (including germs and viruses and bacteria that cause me to get REALLY SICK ON CHRISTMAS. Ugh), but still….I saw a lot of interesting travel-goers.

Like the cute five and six-year-olds with their bright, cartoon-covered sparkly rolling suitcases. You can tell they look so proud and feel Very Grown-Up , half-running to keep up with their parents. Their kid-swagger just screams, “Look at me. I have a SUITCASE. I’m like all of you Big People.” I love it.

Or Running Late Guy. While waiting in line to get a magazine, I heard him panting before I saw him--Sprinting down the main aisle of the airport, a black luggage bag in one hand, his tie flapping behind him, clearly late for his flight. Or, if you are a romantic type, we could go with the idea that he was sprinting to get to his best friend and confess his love before the plane leaves the gate, taking the opportunity of Lifelong Love and Happiness with it (does that really happen in real life??). Either way, Running Late Guy was running. Fast. I heard a collective sigh of sympathy from my fellow customers as we watched Running Late Guy go by. I looked at back at the woman in line behind me, who raised her eyebrows and shook her head, as if to nonverbally say exactly what I was thinking: “That’s gotta suck.”

There was also T-Shirt Guy. A big, broad-shouldered man that looked about my age, he was standing near the window, laughing loudly on his cell phone. As the guy stood up, I noticed the front of his white T-Shirt featured a digitally scanned picture of a man grinning from ear to ear. Under the picture, in bold, black font read: “RIP BEAR.” When T-Shirt guy turned around, the shirt’s back featured several other pictures of Bear and the phrase “HIBERNATING WITH JESUS.”  I couldn’t help but think that was sad and clever at the same time.

I myself had a few awkward encounters at the airport, but not with people. With things.  I learned it takes mad skill to time your walking pace just right so you don’t bif it when you get off those fast-moving sidewalky things.  I also learned this is a skill I do not have. And thank you, robotic voice that kept telling me OVER and OVER to “Please watch your step as you exit the walkway.” I DID WATCH MY STEP. It didn’t help.

Also—the toilets at the airport flush for, like, ever. And without warning. I wouldn’t even be sitting down yet and it would be all “Whooosh, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh.”And it wouldn’t stop. I was just standing there, looking at the toilet water flushing and flushing and flushing. When it finally stopped whooshing, I wanted to say to the toilet, “You finished?”

So all, in all, here’s to 2013 and it’s many milestones and adventures. I plan on posting more often, so, to end this post exactly where we started—a Midwestern girl using Southern phrases—y’all come back now, ya hear?