The End of the Changing Room

Hey there,

This blog is no longer being updated (well at least not updated regularly…). Maybe in some not-so-distant future, life will throw me back into the blogosphere (well actually I write a blog for work, so I suppose I’m already in the blogosphere)…

Peace & Love

The OCD Post-It Tree

I considered taking a picture of my scheduling madness, but I realized any physical evidence of its existence would only be able to be used against me in an insanity trial. The white board with its mint green scrawls, hand-written lists of daily tasks, and most shameful, the OCD Post-It Tree- 12 sticky notes outlining my life for the next 10 days. I’ve never been very good at being organized. If I met elementary school me now, I’d give her a hug and a planner and explain to her why waiting until the morning of a presentation to tell mom you need to be dressed like Mother Theresa for the day is a bad idea (yes, that really did happen. Ten minutes, one off-white bed sheet, and spool of blue ribbon later, I was sent off to school only to get stabbed by the sewing pins my mother had hastily jabbed into the fabric). Today, I’d have sewn up a habit two weeks in advance, rocking a cross blessed by the Pope.

As my schedule has become more crammed with classes, work, and people, working everything (and everyone) in with time constraints has become a sort of hobby. It’s the daily drudge- getting up early for work, spending time in classes, doing homework and other the sort of inflexible activities that need to be worked into my daily life, plus all the things that I want to fall into place- the gym, phone calls home, late night chats with friends, movie nights with the roommate, dinners out with friends- the things that simply make me happy.

For the next week and a half, I have every moment scheduled, at least loosely, with the places I need to be and the people I need to see.

Looking at the neatly organized least, and crossing off each task as it’s been accomplished makes me wonder one thing… What kind of OCD freak have I become?

17 Hours Here, 17 Hours There

Due to poor communication skills, I was apparently triple-booked this past weekend. While I had plans to go home to attend a Halloween cystic fibrosis benefit with  SLJ, KT, and the Christmas Elf, my parents decided it would be a fun idea to book a hotel down here and visit me. In the meantime, my sister called before I knew about my parents’ last minute trip and I promised to hang out with her while I was home. And thus began my dilemma.

After a week of late night homework sessions to prepare for my whirlwind weekend, I made the journey to SLJ’s house. In short, the night involved glitter, fist pumping, dog bites, unicorns, butterflies, flooded bathrooms, and onion rings of glory. The next morning, after the sparkles were removed, we fulfilled the greatest quest of our lives- getting muffins from what is perhaps the best bakery in the world. After munching away at confectionary happiness, we gave our hugs and said our goodbyes. I hopped into my car for the world’s shortest visit with my sister. She had big plans for the day, and quickly made that clear as she cuddled up on the couch with her book; my cue to leave.

I made my way back to the island, just in time for my parents to tell me they were stopping by. With a cold vegetarian pizza in hand from my favorite pizza place, they didn’t even need to tell me that they’d missed me. After stocking my cabinets with a dozen cans of veggie and rice soup (nothing else, just soup. These people know me well), they told me about their many adventures through Newport, which included eating at the too-hip-for-them Christie’s, and taking a ghost tour through downtown. They left to change for dinner, and I tidied my room, wondering how it could be such a disaster even when I wasn’t there.

The next day, they left before 1 p.m. to make it to my uncle’s surprise birthday party. I took a walk up at the nature preserve, ran to the store to get candy for the trick-or-treaters, and wondered how it was already 5:30 p.m. when I could’ve sworn the day had just begun.

After my 17 hour trip to see the friends, followed by 17 hour visit with the ‘rents (with a 17 minute interlude with my sister), I was just exhausted. I tossed my laundry in the wash, and went back to wait for the kids.

As trick-or-treaters rang the bell, I realized this was the first time in 22 years I wasn’t trick-or-treating (I trick-or-treated through college to raise money for Unicef. A couple years in high school I didn’t, but KT, SLJ and I always visited each of our parents’ homes, so I’m counting it). I came to the realization that I was getting old…

And as that terrible thought crossed my mind, I realized my phone was currently riding in the icy abyss of the spin cycle.

Grown-upism: The Disease in which Young People Start Acting like Legitimate Adults

 

 

I knew this moment would come, but I feared it. I resisted it with every fiber of my glittery being. I stalled; I fought; I decorated my living room with a fuzz art poster of a purple and pink unicorn. But no matter how hard I tried, it still happened. I’m growing up. I’m becoming more “adult” and I don’t know what to think about this.

 

The realization came with the fact that I can’t see The Rocket Summer perform tonight because I have class. There was no question about whether I would go; my commitment was to Business Law, not Bryce Avery. The last time I couldn’t see TRS due to a conflict of schedule (SLJ’s conflict, not my own), I threw a minor tantrum (rather unbecoming of a 20-year-old college student). And today, even as I try to feel disappointed about it, I’m not… It’s not for any lack of love for Bryce; just this morning I popped in “Calendar Days” to accompany me on my 30-minute trek to work. It’s just that it’s the way life is, and, well, I’m okay with it

 

 

I imagine this is what it means to be a grown-up, accepting that there are simply things that can’t be done and not feeling all that upset about it. The only thing I feel kind of disappointed in is that grown-upism is taking hold of me. I find myself feeling a little more like a legitimate adult every day. And what really bothers me is that I’m starting to be okay with it. Maybe it’s time to pull out the blue tutu, ninja paint, rubber ducky tie, and pink feather boa…

Crash Into Me

As if I needed another reason to hate SUVs/SUV drivers... picture from gtcarlot.com

I got hit by a car. Okay, I wasn’t so much hit as tapped by a car on my walk to work this morning. Now, I know the woman was driving a giant assed white Mercedes Benz SUV, which just states, “why hello, I am a giant tool,” but it always kills me when a female driver does something incredibly stupid (like hit pedestrians), because it just perpetuates the myth that women can’t drive. Alright, I can’t drive either, and am cognizant that I, too, perpetuate the myth, but I have never once hit a pedestrian. I think I should mention that I am also wearing a nuclear spill-green dress today. It’s practically radioactive. You can see this color from space, so when I’m standing 2 feet in front of your car, I really can’t be missed.

I can’t even be upset about the situation though. One, because I wasn’t hurt; and two, because the look on the woman’s face was absolutely priceless. She literally had the look of “Oh dear Lord, I just shat myself.” And it might have been the most fantastically hilarious thing I’ve ever seen. I actually started laughing out loud because she just looked so ridiculous sitting there, staring at me, with her eyes wide, and her hands clasped over her mouth.

In that moment, I looked her directly in the eyes, with my hand on the front of her unnecessary SUV, and I gave her a big thumbs up. I hope she understood the sarcasm of my gesture. As I rounded the corner for the next block, that big white Benz was just starting to roll up the hill. The poor lady was probably wondering if she had time to go home and change her pants now that she’d crapped herself.

Glitter in the Air

One of my favorite things about glitter? Random glitter transfer: when someone unsuspectingly gets sparkled by coming in contact with a glitter freak such as myself. Image from http://fancydressheaven.co.uk/

I love glitter. And by “love” I mean I have a slightly sick obsession. I wear glitter make-up, glitter shoes, glitter accessories, glitter shirts (I do not own a single pair of glitter jeans, but that’s more out of the fact that they only come in kids’ sizes).  I don’t know exactly when the obsession started, but it was probably in Girl Scouts. At the crafts table, liter-sized vats of the stuff shimmered in the cafegymatarium.  By the end of day, the tables, floors and each little crafter was a disco ball.

Now, let’s make no mistake here. For a majority of my young life, I was a tom boy. I wore baggy cargo shorts and over-sized t-shirts and had the most ridiculous collection of bandannas. I think the bandannas were the key sign that someday I would  grow out of the tom boy stage, not because they were feminine in the slightest. They weren’t. But I owned a bandanna in every color imaginable. I’d coordinate them with my outfits. The tan one went with my Old Navy tan and brown camouflage shirt. The navy one with my navy shirt with the bright orange eagle emblazoned on it.  The Marvin the Martian one went with nothing. I really wish I was making this up…

I couldn’t even do my own make-up until after high-school, but the one thing I always had was glitter. I wore purple glitter hair junk for the entirety of 7^th grade. In 8^th grade, I ran the applicator from a tube of rainbow glitter mascara through my bangs. The only make-up I owned in my four years of high school was a little case of Urban Decay Drifter, a very sparkly purple eye shadow. In my senior year picture, there I am in an ill-fitted black collared shirt with a pea-green tank top underneath, hair a mess, and no make-up except for the burst of purple sparkle on my eye lids.

What’s the point of this? The other night I was washing away the day’s coating of glitter, when I realizes after the suds were splashed away, I could still see myself sparkle in the bathroom light. I exfoliated away the top layer of skin, and the sparkle remained. After years of drenching myself in shimmer, it is now a part of my skin. I’m sure there are some dire health effects associated with this, but except for strippers and drag queens, I really don’t know who else would have this sort of issue.

As a side note, someone told me I’d be a good drag queen if only I’d been a man. I couldn’t help but smile. Those ladies always look so damn fabulous.

The Blog Girl

Around 1:00 p.m. every week day, I get a half hour where I leave the office, sit in the park, and don’t have to think about blogging or destinations I can’t afford. Then the other day I got an email for my boss requesting a lunch meeting. My half hour in the sunshine gone.

On the day of our allotted meeting time, I went to his office, where he quickly brushed past me without so much as a hello. As I stood in the hall clutching my bright blue spiral-bound notebook, I wondered what it felt like to not be the very bottom of the food chain. Fifteen minutes later, he emerged, talking over me to my supervisor, he asked if she was ready, and as she grabbed her purse and he started for the door, I realized I had misinterpreted our lunch meeting. I ran back to my desk and grabbed my purse, I wondered where the heck we were going. As we rushed down the stairs, out the door, and down the street, I felt like a little kid again when my parents were rushing to some event we were late for. As we booked it across the street and onto the wharf, I had to run to keep up with my boss’s long stride. Without even stopping at the hostess stand, my boss announced our arrival, and the hostess sat us at a table. Without a moment to breathe or realize that we were in one of the nicer restaurants downtown, my boss turned to me and asked “So, Lauren, what are your plans for the future?” Plans? Future? Right now, I’m an MBA student who still cleans bathrooms on the weekend for near minimum wage. Yeah, my future is bright…

As the waitress took our orders (I ordered the first thing on the menu I saw without reading the full description), my boss etched notes onto a PowerPoint presentation I’d sent him. As I justified my worth at the company, I felt like I did back in high school, sitting across from my guidance counselor, running through everything I did in high school that would help me get into college.

“How long have you been with us? About 6 weeks?” He asked.
“Um, about three months…”

“What makes you stand out?”

“I write the blog?”

And as the questions went on, I realized this was an interview of sorts and I was failing. In my oversized pink button-up, black sweeping sweater and flip flops, I knew I wasn’t impressing anyone with my interviewee skills. Without letting me speak, my boss went on to say how he likes what I’ve been doing and to get to the gist of the story, they want to keep me but don’t have any place to put me, but they might someday if I stay and just keep doing what I do.

So here I am, actually a professional, career blogger. To think I was going to take a film class instead of that blogging class in college…

Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head

Clouds to Lauren: "I will kill you, sucker!" Illistration from http://school.discoveryeducation.com

The other day I got caught out in a rainstorm. No, let me correct that. I got caught in the middle of a monsoon. I could feel the static tingle on my skin and each flash of lightning momentarily blinded me. I don’t think I’ve ever actually felt the heat of lightning before; I don’t think you’re supposed to actually, but I have now. Within seconds, I was soaked through my clothes and my shoes pooled with water. Then another flash, and there I was in the middle of the street, over a mile from home. I always thought my death would have been something more glamorous than “struck by lightning and then drowned in a puddle” but alas, it looked like my fate.

After 20 minutes of breathing water, I was done. I was glad I hadn’t finished my homework yet; it would have been such a waste to spend the last moments of my life contemplating classical philosophy. Then like a gleam of light in the distance, I heard the sweetest sound that has ever met my ears, “Hey, you want to come up on the porch and wait out the storm?” Handing me a towel, a group of wannabe storm watchers introduced themselves. They offered me a beer (which I politely declined) and showed me the storm tracking on their phone. I played with their dogs until the rain ended and realized at some point, I’d lost my headphones to the storm.

Walking home with my soaked clothes clinging to my skin, I got three honks, four waves, and single head nod. When I walked into my house, a pool of water collected around me. I poured the water from my sneakers and stepped into the most glorious shower the world has ever known and said a little thank you for the random kindness of strangers.

Trip Home Highlights

This past weekend, I finally did it. It was a difficult choice, but I knew there was no way around it. I went home to visit my parents. While my once a month visits in college seemed like more than enough for all of us, my parents now treat me like a first-born son coming back from war after three years as a POW. In every conversation, my parents made a point to tell me how glad they were I was home. When I told them I needed to leave early get some class work done, my father’s disheartened look was enough for me to realize an early departure would only leave me feeling guilty the entire trip back.

Trip Highlights:

Mom: Is it okay if we just put a mattress on the floor for you?
Me: I can just sleep on the floor in the living room like before.
Mom: You said you didn’t lke that so we put the bed together last time.
Me: Dad did that without you knowing. You told me to sleep on the floor.
Mom: Oh, like I never do anything for you.
Me: It’s only one night… I need to go back early to get school work done.
Mom: Oh, be quiet. You’re staying two nights. We’ll make up the mattress.

 

 

Mom: You have no ass. Your pants are sagging.”
Me: “Do you think I need a smaller size?”
Mom: Examining me and grabbing my thigh, “Not with those things.”

 

Sister: In Boston, after a group of girls cut in line to be with their friends. “People have got no manners. It’s not okay.” Then proceeded to try to knock them down on the dance floor with limited success.

 

Me: Mouth full of chocolate chip pancake.
Mom: “Are you eating down there? I’m afraid you’re not eating. Are you anorexic?”
Me: Still chewing… “I just had four pancakes…”

 

Mom: “Lauren has the best nose of all of us; your father has the worst.”
Sister: “Lauren’s nose is better than mine?”
Mom: “No, no. That’s not what I meant.”
Sister: “How is her nose better than mine? Her nose is smaller than mine?”
Mom: “No, your nose is smaller… They’re both very nice noses.”
Sister: “I can’t believe you said her nose was nicer than mine…”

 

Mom: “Older men love young girls. They can’t help it.”
Dad: Rolls his eyes at mom.
Sister: “Dad hates you.”

 

Me: “I forgot to buy soup and shaving gel…”
Dad: “Do you want my shave gel?”
Me: “I’m all set; I’ll stop by CVS.”
Mom: “Make a list; we’ll come down next weekend.”
Me: “You’re not coming down next weekend.”
Me: “Wait, are you coming down next weekend?”
Dad: “Your mom just wants to go to the beach; it has nothing to do with you.”

Get Warped, Nana

You know that saying that kids say, "If it's too loud, you're too old"? Yeah, I'm officially too old. Picture from farm3.static.flickr.com

This past week, I dragged SLJ to the Warped Tour, because it really just isn’t summer until you’ve spent nine  hours in the blazing sun surrounded by a cornucopia of shirtless, sweaty high-school boys rocking out to punk covers of Taylor Swift songs. Yes, a cornucopia of them.

Before going, I had already come to the realization that I was too old for this. While guys seem to attend Warped Tour well into their late 20s (and a few well into their 40s), the average girl looked to be about 15. But the moment I really knew I was too old was when I looked into the mosh pit and thought, ‘oh holy heck I am not going in there.’ I used to thrash with the best of them, taking shoes to the head and getting hit in the face, and just completely rock out drenched in other people’s sweat. And sick as it sounds, I lived for it; it was my favorite part of going to the show. But then this week, I looked into that rolling glob of people, so hot that you can feel the humidity come of the mass, and thought, ‘yeah, no, I’m good over here by the seats, thanks.’

Then SLJ and I looked at each other, and as if only to confirm that we were both getting a little too old, we looked at the speakers, then back at one another and agreed that it was just a little too loud.

And that was it. There are moments when you realized you’ve changed, that you are no longer the person you once were. At that moment, it was clear, I am getting old. I already knit, have poor eyesight and terrible hearing, and bruise like a peach. I’m like a 22-year-old grandma.