Growing Up, Showering, and Something to Do With Cake

I don't think I give the grade-school-me enough credit.

Conversely, I think I maaaaay give the adult-me too much credit.

I think.

But these later generations have me shaking my head and wondering, "Has our world truly spiraled downward this quickly or was I just the oblivious blondie every joke eludes to?"

I am the oldest of 5 kids. I am 29, the youngest 13. And, people, WE. ARE. TWO. DIFFERENT. GENERATIONS.

My sister, LoriAnn, and I were born 15 months apart. The younger 3 siblings were born 9+ years later. They have no idea of the world Lori & I grew up in. School was different, music was different (well, not so different now, thanks to One Direction bridging the so-pretty-it-hurts boy band gap), and our parents were different.

I can honestly say that makeup, leg-shaving, and having any idea on how to behave in a dating relationship was completely lost on me. So lost, in fact, that they weren't even fully-formed thoughts. I was unfamiliar enough with them that even if my brain ventured that direction, it soon gave up because there was no visible mental path to continue exploring.

And now there's my littlest sister. And we won't address that here.

There are also 2 other generations in my family circus circle: my parents and my own son. It is so unique watching everyone mesh together. Some days, it's like gears in a clock. And some days, it's a like a toddler's first birthday cake - all the pieces are there, but it's a sweet disaster.

I've noticed several similarities between my younger self and Eric's behavior. But because of the different environments we grew/are growing up in, I can also see differences.

I was/am the oldest child, and must endure (said with loooove) the younger beings that followed me. Eric is my oldest/only, but he must endure every single body born before him in the form of my younger siblings. They most often serve dual-purpose for each other; along with being each others' aunt/uncle/nephew, they are also like the extra siblings none of them ever wanted.

Because of this "built-in" socialized exposure, Eric has picked up on quips and retorts and phrases at his young age that would've never graced my lips until years later. Often, this makes for incredulous, hysterical laughter. And sometimes, there is much forehead smacking and/or looks of controlled panic (and let's just be honest here: lots of "Michael!" and his influential, 18-year-old self. Boys.)

A couple days ago, I was sitting outside, wrapped in a blanket, half watching my boyfriend, Sean, and my brother, Michael, attempt badminton, and half trying to read a book. And then I was doing neither because Eric sat down next to me & informed me that he needed to ask me a question.

"Mom, can I bring my blue Nintendo DS on the bus on our field trip?" (His DS is a handheld video-gaming device that Mommy paid lots of money for. The field trip was to Boise...2 hours away.)

"No, sweetie. You know what I always say. I don't want anything to happen to it. You can take the red one, though." (The red one is an older, smaller model...that the ex paid for. Heh.)

It was at this point that I expected the usual protests & arguments because his blue one is newer/cooler/can do things that the red one can't/etc. He did present an argument, but one I wasn't expecting:

"But Mom, you let me take the blue one when I was in kindergarten. I'm a lot more responsible now."

My mouth literally opened and closed, partly because I couldn't possibly believe I actually did allow that, and partly because he was using solid logic and reasoning. And I'm much more comfortable being the I'm-right-because-I'm-the-Mom-and-that's-pretty-much-the-only-card-I-have-to-play-but-darn-it-if-it-ain't-a-good-one parent.

I just ended up laughing...and saying no again.

And then yesterday, I had another glimpse into how this little boy of mine is growing up into...well...a boy, sans the "little".

I gave Eric a haircut and stuck him in the shower. To ensure all the tickly little hairs wouldn't prove torturous later, I stood at the opening of the shower, offering "assistance" verbally (one of my specialties). "Put your head back. No, more in the water. Rub your head with your hands to help them wash off. There's some on your ear. Careful, you'll get water in your nose." You get the idea.

"Mom, you're not going to stand there the whole time, are you?"

*crickets chirping*

"What? Psh. NO. Don't be ridiculous. I'm just going to go stand over...here.....now."

Independence is so not cool.

Knot Happening

This just happened on my FB newsfeed:

Cynthia Chung is obviously a gifted photographer. The picture is beautiful and I don't think it would be nearly as wonderful if that charming Fifth Ave sign wasn't framing the couple from the top (go ahead, cover it with your finger & see). The couple is comfortable being in love...on the sidewalk...of a major city street...in wedding attire.

And this is all great. Except I can't get over the sentence above it.

I'm missing a gene. A girly gene. A taffeta and tulle and lace and beading-encrusted gene. I have no idea what my dream gown is - and this is after already having had a wedding. Many brides go to such lengths to create their perfect day - colors, flowers, wedding monograms, styles, decorations; there's even a term for it: branding.

{Me being the dairy-girl that I am, am having a hard time envisioning "branding" as anything but bellowing calves, a hot iron, and the smell of burnt hair...none of which is featured on The Knot.}

I have never had much of anything "get me through the day", with the exception of the following:

The promise of Date Night (with either or both of my men)

Girls Night

Vacation

The Lord Almighty

But a photo? Of people I don't know? Please tell me I'm not a wedding-robot for struggling with this. And is this photo even chic enough to be featured on a prominent wedding site? Because all of Pinterest (and just about every other wedding blog known to womankind) is telling me that rustic/vintage/shabby chic is the only way to go. All things Mason jar, barn wood, and old suitcases. 

 

I'm pretty sure yellow taxis don't qualify.

But I'm also starting to think that I don't qualify. I mean, I don't even know what I'd want if I got married again*. More specifically, I know what I don't want, but only usually when I see it. I want fun and bright colors and people to have a good time. Simple enough, right? 

Wrong.

Try searching for those keywords in the wedding industry and you know what you get?

Carnival/circus theme!

Fair theme!

Cinema theme!

"Offbeat"

Inspiration from several countries I've never been to nor am a descendant of!

Etsy-made pinwheels & crepe paper backdrops!

Quinceanera, anyone?!

So much web-thusiasm (yes, I just made that up) for so many things that aren't "me"! And I can't be the only one like me, can I? There's got to be at least one other gal who is sitting somewhere, wondering why the industry is practically telling her that her guests will be in a beautiful meadow seated on old church pews and each of her bridesmaids will be in cowboy boots. She's out there, right? {Please know that if you were/are a bride that is all over this current trend, I am envious of you & I know your day will be beautiful & swooned over. You will have no trouble finding decor & accessories & ideas. And I envy you for that.}

*I need to be completely honest here and say that I DO (heh, see what I did there?) know what I'd want if I ever get married again: courthouse or elopement. I would still love to plan a big, fun reception & celebrate the day away with friends & family, but the wedding...the wedding can be our own thing, without all the hoopla, obligations, or expectations.

Or re-purposed dressers.

Rules for Life (Or, Why I Wasn't Voted Prom Queen)

1. Don't look for actual inspiration on Pinterest. Unless of course you are looking for ways on how to suffocate the dreams of the wedding you may very well never have, bury your self-loathing in homemade ice cream, or simply escape the harmonious screaming of the small humans entrusted to your care.
2. Don't neglect how yoga pants and wine are directly linked to mental health. If the voices are just a little louder than usual today, you're deficient in one/both of the above.
3. Don't excitedly climb aboard the Coconut Water bus thinking it will taste like an Almond Joy with a straw stuck in it. It doesn't. (A cocktail umbrella only numbs the disappointment for a short while.)
   

   

   Yes, but where's the rum?

   
   
4. If you leave something open, make sure you close it. This includes your mouth.
5. Don't write "like like like!" on someone's FB status and then not actually click "Like".
6. Do compliment someone when they do/say/wear something pleasing to you. It will knock their socks off. And it's free! And maybe they'll tell you how amazing you are, too!
7. When making life-altering decisions like: To Brazilian or Not to Brazilian? or either of the following: Purchasing a I Heart Mustaches shirt or Growing An Actual Mustache, keep in mind that you are A. opening yourself up for possible ridicule, and B. obligated to talk and/or blog about it ('cause you know it's gonna happen after too much wine anyway.)
8. Don't laugh at the person rocking out on the treadmill. They're having more fun than you.
9. Rock out on the treadmill.
10. You are never too old to be polite. Unless you're in diapers. Then your debt to society has probably been paid.
11. Don't interrupt. It makes me all stabby.
12. Each person's opinion is valuable. Often wrong, but valuable.
13. Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and strength because there may come a time when He's the only thing preventing you from devouring your own child.
14. It doesn't matter if the glass is half empty or half full. It does matter if I can see the bottom of that glass.
15. Don't label yourself as a "feminist". It seems redundant. And silly.
16. Do wear a bra. A cute one.
17. If you reserve the right to curse loudly and/or smoke around me or my child, I reserve the right to withhold respect and assume you (and your teeth) didn't quite finish 8th grade.
18. Don't whistle at girls as you walk by. One day you will meet one that will make you regret it.
19. Try, try, try not to assume. But if you do, make it outlandish.
20. Learn Spanish...just in case.

Valued | Ksenia

New Hampshire: my Russian empire.

That tiny East-coast state typically boasts of incredible foliage, amazing skiing, glass-like lakes, and delicious slices of our country's history. And their rally-cry State motto is "Live Free or Die".

'Merica.

And make no mistake, I met some incredible Americans during my time in that state. Some from Wyoming of all places, some with accents that made mundane sentences deliriously hilarious, some from wildly wealthy families, some with sweetly ignorant ideas of what Idaho was all about (think spurs, billowing tumbleweeds, and swinging saloon doors).

And I'm thankful for having met each one of them...well, except for that one mean girl who played lacrosse...and her cousin with the scary eyebrows...but otherwise, each of them.

But the ones who left the deepest impression, who stamped my life with their friendship as easily as they got their passports stamped after crossing the Atlantic, were the Russians. There were Czechs (with teeny little speedos), a girl from Poland who, I convinced myself, was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen, and a couple others from here & there.

But the Russians...underneath the stereotype of the huge fur hats & famous vodka (that part of the stereotype was based on fact...), are some of the most incredible, generous, compassionate people to ever grace my memory.

I met Ksusha (said like Xoosha). But no one called her that. It was "shortened" to Ksenia or Ksu. And she was a blue-eyed sweetheart with long, wild blonde hair. I began to pick up on the fact that the Russian girls seemed to think I was funny. Naturally, my little ego was smitten & advocated for quality time with them. For some reason, they allowed it, and I was given the precious gift of being able to learn about them.

Ksu did not put time into her physical appearance like I did. She showered and went on her way, no hair dryer, makeup, primping or fuss. Few of them did. And yet, they were radiantly beautiful because their souls shined directly out of their eyes & smiles. I don't think I will ever forget Ksu's smile. It is one of the warmest, most welcoming things ever directed at me. Pure happiness & acceptance.

Has anyone ever allowed you to feel that way? It's blissful & convicting all at once.

Their grasp of the English language was astounding & we had almost no trouble communicating. In high school, I discovered that I had a knack for deducing what a "foreigner" was trying to say when the correct words escaped him/her. And over the years, various individuals from other countries have told me the same thing. Exchange students would seek me out in the midst of conversations with others because of the luck I'd had earlier. It was like a word puzzle; I loved it. This trait was also responsible for roping me into making international travel arrangements for about 17 individuals. No sweat...ha. So, "the Russians" (said with love) and I were equally impressed with each other.

Ksu is still one of the least-pretentious people I know. She still wears flowing skirts and picks flowers and loves animals and loves to travel. A beautiful woman in every way. We would talk about work, the OMG-so-cute-I'm-going-to-feign-death-for-his-attention boy from Switzerland, shopping, more boys (or the same boys), or we'd just lay out on the dock by the lake together & listen to music.

When enough of us had the same day off, they'd beg me to reserve the Jeep and drive them into a nearby town that had a mall. Ksu was always in my shotgun seat, singing, laughing, or eating an orange. There was always so much laughter. I'm shaking my head now, thinking about it, because I don't think any of the girls in the back ever put a seatbelt on. How the heck are you supposed to help each other remember the words to the American pop singer if you can't see each others' promptings?? God probably just chuckled and cleared the way for us.

Ksu was one of my very first "safe places". It was just as astounding as it was amazing to have someone just let me be. We had almost nothing in common except a sense of humor and it was still one of the easiest friendships I have ever had. I don't remember ever seeing her upset. Even when she was telling me about the guy she was dating (and liked very much)...Michael was his name...and how they had talked about ending the relationship on friendly terms because at some point, she was going back to Russia and he to China. I could tell it hurt, but she was talking about nothing but good things. I believe I ended up being more heart-broken than she was. (Good-byes are not my strong point. Oy.)

The day I had to drive a bunch of them to the bus stop to get a ride to the airport was heart-wrenching for me. For one thing, please see above statement in parentheses. For another thing, my "safe place" was going halfway around the world. It signaled the end - the end of the summer, the end of making lakeside memories, the end of that season of our friendship. And it was raining. Like, really??

I still have the emails we've exchanged, though they are years old and no new ones have come to replace them. We are friends on FB who rarely speak...who don't need to. I will click through her pictures to remember and she will comment to share a laugh.

"Janellochka" was my honorary Russian name. And I often sign my name that way in correspondence with her. It's a thin, international thread that connects our New Hampshire season when we "lived free" to our current lives, our current selves. We have both changed & grown, but the girls that lived to swim & flirt & explore & get to the bottom of that Hawaiian Tropic bottle are still in there. It came too naturally for it to have gone away with the bus that day.

The last Ksenia told me, she was working as an interpreter for a government office, I believe. And I remember how proud (and envious) I felt. That girl...I know her...we go waaaaay back.

Ksu, you hold a very special place in my heart (where we shop & drink boxed wine & love silly boys), and I believe you always will. I value you & what you've added to my life.

Love,
Janellochka

 

Weekend Cocktail: The Work/Play Martini

The Work/Play Martini: shaken, and only slightly disturbed.

I had been to Tom's Whiffle-Ball Golf Extravaganza only once before. And good food, drinks, and activities were abundant. But I mostly just ate. And talked.

So unlike me.

This year, Sean wasn't working and was therefore roped into obligated coerced into excited to go with me. He was really looking forward to the quality time. Pork shoulder, a cold drink, and the promise of golf had nothing to do with it.

I had made arrangements with the mother of one of Eric's best friends to ensure Alex (said best friend) could come along. I believe it is worth noting that I have to do this in Spanish. IN SPANISH. And no matter how funny I think I am in English, I am 3,000 times more offensive in Spanish. God bless Alex's mom, who continues to allow her child to play with mine. After all, hanging out with mostly adults can give even the most obedient child a light touch of Dennis-the-Menace. (It will even do that with some adults...something about Restless Legs and Tourettes...)

Eric and I cleaned around the house amidst the sounds of much protesting and some totally rockin' tunes (Britney Spears...like I had to clarify) until Alex was done with his soccer game & we could pick him up.

Sean played the role of hero (yet again) by picking up the ingredients for my 3-Ingredient Lemon Bars that I was going to bring along. In an effort to still qualify for the Mother of the Year award, I asked Eric if he wanted to help me. One of my favorite kitchen decorations is now hopelessly lodged behind the oven and my finger has finally stopped bleeding.

We made it to the Extravaganza, prepped a couple margaritas, and enjoyed some good food & company.

"Resort Life" Sean

Alex & Eric Being Boys

It's Harder Than You Think

It was so great to get together with a few of my co-workers outside of the office. Those guys know how to have a good time. And their horse property is perfect for curious little boys. We golfed and the boys went down to the creek and came back with a frog in each hand. I wanted to hold them, too, so I didn't get a picture of that.

Sean and I also tried a Budweiser Lime-A-Rita (is that what they're called?) Even now, I don't really know what my opinion is of them. Maybe Sean summed it up well when he said, "That would do in a pinch."

Main Street, In Shapewear

Once upon a time, there was a silly girl. Pretty, but silly. And she got married.

And then she got divorced. And lived happily ever after.

Or something like that.

You know how, after you break up with someone, you still find traces of them around? Shirts, jewelry, notes, that gag-inducing mix cd? It can cause emotional upheaval at worst, and is annoying at best. The memories, like the individual, need to go.

Sometimes, there's an obvious solution to what to do with the memoirs. Donate, throw away, burn return to their owner.

But what do you do when the memoir is your wedding dress?

That dress and I...we've been through a lot. I've had it for...oh my...eleven years?! And it's seen two engagements. Two very disastrous engagements. I'm having a hard time typing with my head in my hands, just thinking about them. "Engagement" inspires romantic feelings involving fireworks and bubbles shaped like hearts. And everyone always wants to know how he asked.
(Please note: this link does not take you to a story of either of my proposals. Those stories are reserved for inner circles, and only after enough wine has been circulated so one can no longer tell whether the listeners are laughing or crying. This link takes you to a much happier place.)

"Entrapments" fits my situation much better. Yes. I like it.

And I like the dress. It made me feel pretty in the midst of everything. But I don't want it in my life forever. Besides how I looked in it, the memories that are sown into the fabric alongside the pearls are not joy-filled. And I don't need a formal, flowing reminder of that in my home for years to come. I have (the lack of) child support payments for that.

Enter: Main Street

A bridal fashion show was to take place downtown, showcasing & selling previously-loved gowns.

And I wanted in.

I registered and showed up to sign the necessary paperwork like a good little divorcee would.

And it was there that I was informed of the feeeeel of the bridal bash. "Alternative."

Psh. Ok. That's not so bad. What's that even mean, anyway? I mean, I tend to steer clear of music boasting the "alternative" label, but that's because of bad words and scary cover art. And a show featuring wedding dresses can't possibly have bad words or scary art. It's unholy...and probably illegal, right? The David's Bridal police would shut that down with carefully choreographed sashaying and juuuust the right amount of tulle. It's FINE. I'm going to sell my dress and another bride-to-be is going to love it and it is going to be amazing.

And here is me, at the dress photo shoot, ignorantly assuming this is similar to how I'd look in the actual show:

 

And the other models began showing up. Many of them already knew each other. They had tattoos. I have none. Two were men, (or at least had been at some point.) I had (gracious, handsome, supportive) Sean. 

On some faraway, "alternative" planet - we're even.

I had to shift my focus & rally around my bottom line: to sell my dress. Sell my dress. Because at this point, I was feeling very out-of-place. And make no mistake - I was acutely aware of the potential for awkwardness for Sean: sitting next to me, in my old wedding dress, a few seats over from a couple other dudes, in old wedding dresses.

Praise the sweet Lord for Sean's patience. I was the first one photographed and we zoomed over to the Anchor Bistro to enjoy wine and the realization that it was 21 months for us.

Fast forward to Main Street on a Saturday. The show. 

I walked into the designated basement room - stuffed to the brim with dresses and drama. And literally stood there, in the middle of the hairspray & glitter tornado, and took it all in between hopeful glances at my cell phone.

So. much. eyeshadow. 

And eventually it was my turn. I asked a lovely gal if she would apply two vivid shades of blue to my lids, which I then begrudgingly exaggerated with black liner...and glitter:

This picture doesn't do it justice. And, oh, how thankful I am for that. But what's that? What's going on with my hair? I literally have no words. Just this:

  

At the risk of full-disclosure (and my remaining dignity), please try to imagine the height, the volume, the sheer intensity of it all, but without the bobby-pinned control. For a good 10 minutes, I was a hair planet. It was radiating out from my head until my 26th pass by the mirror when I finally acknowledged several lines had been crossed (gravity and self-respect being two). This, this was the happy medium that resulted from the chaotic blending of "alternative" and "ARE YOU KIDDING ME".

I did manage to glean a few things from the whole experience:

1) I met some beautiful & hilarious girls who didn't hold my ink-free skin against me.

2) Shapewear can make anyone any shape they want.

3) Shapewear can be abused just like alcohol, friendship, or ice cream.

4) Strolling down Main Street on a Saturday will always make me compulsively check my hair.

My dress is still available. Weird.