It’s pretty common knowledge by now that my first year of college was, shall we say, a little rocky. I mean, I made three friends (which is about .000001% of the U-M population) and spent the majority of my time either studying until my eyes shut or tackling my transfer application.
I found Michigan very, very tough. The school work wasn’t impossible, but I really struggled with the transition from being completely dependant on my parents to being on my own. I actually feel like this stage of life is hard for a lot of people, but back in 2007, it wasn’t something I felt anyone else was going through. Everyone else seemed to love college. What was wrong with me? In hindsight? Nothing was wrong with me. I came from a happy home and was put in a new environment that was tough…of course I would struggle. Just because there are 4,000 other kids around you that are new to Ann Arbor doesn’t at all lessen the face that you’re new to AA too. Life’s a tricky bitch that way.
I headed back home a lot my first year away. I had my high school boyfriend back at MSU and I was happy to see my parents, but I always cried and cried on my way back to school. The feeling I got going back to Michigan is the same feeling I get now when I run out of wine: “OOOHHH NOOOOO! WHAT AM I GOING TO DO? HOW WILL I SURVIVE ANOTHER MOMENT?” No, I’m not an alcholic. Yes, I really like cheap wine, especially the kind from bags.
On one particular trip back, very early in my first year of college (think early October), my mom saw my poor little eyes whell up with tears and because I was very pitiful looking, she decided to give me a gift. I present to you, the little shirt that could:
It's a little small, a little worn, and a little perfect
This shirt, which has no tags on it, so I have no idea where it’s from or what size it is, is the same shirt my mom wore through every exam in law school. She gave it to me and told me to wear it for exams, study hard, have a little faith, and I’d never do poorly. It was a risky statement by her…but it worked.
I wore that shirt religiously. I’m not superstituious, but I would not take exams without it. Of course, there were rules. It was for exams only; quizzes, presentations, papers…it stayed in the closet. But for exams, I HAD to wear it, which often meant outfit changes midday or running a mile back to my house before class if I forgot it. This shirt is from before I was born, which means it’s from before my mom transformed into Fitness Barbie. So, it’s not only too wide, but it comes to maybe my midriff. And I’m 22 now…I’m not interested in showing my belly button ring and minor wine gut off to my classmates. So, if I wore it, I had to put a sweatshirt over it. Do you know what it’s like to wear a sweatshirt in August? Hot, baby. But I never failed.
After something like 24 finals, 30 midterms, and a million other exams, I graduated from college. I was a little stumped with what to do with the shirt. I thought about giving it away to a new freshman who needed some extra love, but I could’t really find anyone who would apprecite the four years I’d put into it, not to mention the three years of law school my own mom had worn it through. I left it hanging (oh yes, this shirt always is on a hanger, despite the fact that it is 25 years old) in my closet and when it was time to move to LA, I couldn’t decide what to do. But in the end, the answer was easy.
Of course I would bring it with me. This shirt is my secruity blanket and now instaed of wearing it through tough days, I sleep with it at night. Someday, I’ll give it to my own little girl, but when that happens, I’ll be able to tell her how the shirt went to law school, college, and then through my early twenties. If my mom and I can get through those tough times, she can too.
Tough times come and go, friends change, relationships fade, but if you’re really lucky, your family is always there and you always have a little bit of them to hold on to at night.
Posted by M on Jun 21, 2010 in
Completely Biased Memories I’ve gone through phases where I’ve had cases of wedding fever, baby fever, peanut m and m fever, homesick fever, and Beiber fever, but right now, I’m suffering from a severe case of puppy fever.
I’m not sure if anyone but me recalls, but once upon a time, I graduated from high school and for an entire four hour period, I was the proud owner of a cute little puppy. And then my dad stole it. In hindsight, this should have been something I saw coming: the man can’t even watch a Nicholas Sparks’ movie without tearing up–of course he was going to hijack my cute little puppy! However, I couldn’t have forecasted Charlie being all in love with Cliff. That was a surprise. It’s almost as if I got asked out for a date by a really hot guy at the bar…and then he met my friends and married one of them. My ego would be a little scarred, but honestly, their relationship is probably the best for all parties involved. Charlie is more spoiled than I’d ever have been able to spoil him, and Cliff has someone to act like a dork around so he doesn’t embarrass me as much. And “as much” is completely relevant, because I promise you, he still manages to make me cringe when he wants.
Now that Charlie is turning four next month (July 21…I’m sure Cliff will send out the birthday invitation soon), he’s practically 28 in dog years. If he was a person, he could have kids, a divorce, and alimony payments by now! He also is forever Cliff’s. I can’t take him back after college-even if the parentals insist I can. Charlie would mope way too much. I’ve spent afternoon with Charlie where everytime the door opens, his little eyes burst with excitment as if to say, “Is my soulmate home? Is he? I’ve missed him so much and although your lap is warm, you don’t feed me and you seem to get annoyed with how smelly I am, which is something my lover never is bothered by. In fact, my lover LOVES my odor. He says it’s the scent of true love.”
how can you NOT love this face?
Once I graduate, however, I’d like to reattempt doggie parenthood. I think I’d make a good doggy mom, and it might ward off the fact that those cute little bonnets in Baby Gap are totally encouraging my maternal clock to start ticking. Besides the fact that dogs are adorable and are a great incentive to get off my ass and actually do something (unlike today, where I have not worked out and literally have spent over 10 hours in a chair), I’m actually a prime candidate for a dog because I’m probably the most ignorant person you’ve ever met. And I don’t mean ignorant in the bigoted or stupid definitions, I mean ignorant in the fact that I believe, truly and deep in my heart, that every person has the best of intentions.
I don’t want to scare the very same people who I intend to gift me this dog, but let me just say that until recently, I was that girl that always walked home alone at night. I never locked a thing. I’d rather take the subway in Chicago at night by myself than pay cab fare. I walked places in Italy alone that I’m embarrassed to admit. I run at night alone. It usually takes my boyfriend, my brother, or my dad very, very firmly telling me I’m being “stupid” and “irresponsible” before I get my act together and do the safe thing. I might mock my mom for telling me to buy pepper spray, but let’s be honest: she’s the only person who knows me well enough to know I’m going to engage is silly behavior–and she’s prefer I come prepared.
Ergo, I feel it’s in my best interest to get a small, hypoallergenic dog that not only is slightly obsessed with me, but needs exercise and would like to run trails with me at night, happily willing to bite or bark at anyone that’s giving off creepy vibes. I like puggles and goldendoodles, and even Yorkies like Charlie–just this time I’d probably not select the runt, since Charlie’s cute little legs can’t carry him very far.
Because I’m usually very bored in Minneapolis and my homesick levels are about to become quite elevated, I’ve started searching the internet. I’ve found some candidates that I think would make great additions to the Maggie Flood House of Awesome, but I won’t be ready to take on parenthood for at least another nine months–after all, the bar doesn’t exactly have a doggy door. Furthermore, I’m not sure where I’m going to end up, so I should probably make sure I have a nice, pets allowed pad before I pay a paycheck’s worth of cash to ensure my little precious baby snowflake is the perfect dog.
In the meantime, I plan on being homesick for little Charlie. I have high hopes that when I come home in 56 days, Charlie will give me a solid hour of his attention. Or at least until Cliff comes home.
In an email to my longlost brothers the other day, we (or I, since I”m the only kid that remembers this crap), realized that I would be the only kid in the United States for Father’s Day this year. Which means I’m probably the only kid that managed to send Cliff a card and likely, will be the only kid that manages a phone call (skype doesn’t count, losers). Besides the obvious factoid that I now have cemeted my place as Cliff’s favorite, this conclusion is interesting for two reasons: the first is that this is the first holiday ever where not one Flood baby is eligible to make it home and moreover, for Mother’s Day, we were all out of the country too. I find it a little ironic that two people spend the majority of their lives raising little zygotes into kids,those little former fetuseseventually peace out and aren’t even available for a simple brunch to celebrate the two investers (read: parents) who have funded their adventures.
It's totally normal to hike up 3 miles at Macchu Picchu at 5 am, right? Every family totally does that.
Perhaps for my family though, celebrating Father’s or Mother’s day is a little silly. Before you flame torch for me stating that such Hallmark Holidays aren’t pertient to the mental health of my parentals, let me assure you that my parents deserve holidays and special gifts more than any other parents I know. Traveling Brother, Doctor Brother, and I were not always the easiest bundles of joy to handle. And baby leashes weren’t even invented until I was like, 10, so they weren’t an option to keep us unde rcontrol. Plus, spanking became quite the faux paus around the time David took the stage.
Leashes weren't available, and apparently neither were cribs.
What I mean is that my parents do not fall into the typical Mom or Dad role. They approach their marriage and their family as a team effort. It’s not always flawless, but it has set an excellent example for my siblings and I as to what to look for in relationships: teamwork, unselfishness, and the ability to put others before yourself. I’ll save the analysis of their relationship for their anniversary (ha! who actually thinks I’ll blog then?), but I will say this: If I’m half as happy as my parents are when I’ve been married for 30 years, I’ll be happier than the time I lost five pounds following a strictly ice cream diet (oh, the days before lactose intolerance were the glory days).
So, for the parents out there that did parenting right, that approached raising their little seeds of joy using a tag team philosophy, I have invented a new holiday for you: Mathers Day. Here’s to you, parentals. You sometimes were annoying, overly strict, and frustrating but hey, I’m 21, not knocked up, and I’m pretty happy overall. You can label yourself victorious!
Cliff's parenting skills? Victory. His 'stash? Not so much.
Therefore, I would like to focus some kind words on Ann and Cliff’s parenting skills. For them, it was always a joint venture (if they hadn’t been so awesome, I wouldn’t have gone to college to even learn that term!) Sure, sometimes Cliff cooked more or Ann yelled more or Cliff used his stern voice while Ann approached things with a more sensitive attitude, but for the most part, every decision they made or assistance they offered us was after taking a time out to conferance as a team. They used their joint resources to make sure that each kid got the best of what they had to offer.
In this case, I’m the blacksheep simply because I’m lacking the matching haircut
Of course, you want examples. Readers are so needy. I remember when I was knee deep in the awkward years, I had some english homework that I didn’t understand. I spent a few (probably 30 seconds) attempting to comprehend it on my own, and then I went for help, seeking out my Mom rather than my Dad, simply because I always asked him. I figured she might want a shot. After reading her the assignment, she looked up at me and just said, “yeah, your dad’s a lot better at that stuff than me. I think he’s downstairs.” But, I also remember calling home once from college because I was really sick and wasn’t sure how to handle it. Cliff answered the phone and after relaying my symptoms, he replied, “yeah, let me grab your mom for you. She’s a lot better at this stuff than me.”
My mom picked out every one of my prom dresses, but my Dad was the only one I’d believe as to whether or not they looked pretty. My dad is the first person I look to for advice when figuring out what my next move should be, but my mom’s the only person I trust when it’s time to click the button or submit. Like most girls in their twenties, I have a body image slightly distorted by the media and sale associates in stores like Forever 21. The only person I trust with an outfit or to take me shopping, is my mom. And the only person I trust to tell me the truth as to whether or not that loaf of bread I had for breakfast made me instantly obese, is my Dad.
Nowadays, the mathers can only dream of me wearing a dress down to my ankles.
Now that I’m older, I appreciate the way I was raised more than ever before. I might have some self-confidence issues and I might be just a little corky, but compared to many of my peers, I’m extremely well-adjusted. My resume is super impressive–I’m currently in a 85% MBA internship program because of how much I’ve manged to cram into two years of college–and I wouldn’t have accomplished any of it without my parents constantly urging me to try a little harder, risk a little more, do the very, very best you can! Not to mention, my mom edited my resume and my Dad reviewed it. You can bet your ass there’s not a spelling error on that thing.
I remember the day my brother called home to tell my parents he was going to med school. I’m sure there were calls galore before this one and after, and I’m sure that it was not such a monumental moment as I’ve built it into my brain to be. But, I do remember sitting at the long oak table in our kitchen and Doctor Brother was on the line in the kitchen, telling my parents that he was definetly going to turn down his Big Boy job to pursue medicene. This job was amazing for a kid out of college—the kind of job that would support Brah for years.I remember each parent picked up a line, my brother said whatever little ditty he’d practiced, and then they hung up. My mom announced, “So Dave’s going to med school.” Cue glance at Dad, who nodded and they both kind of mutterred, “wellll, whatever makes him happy.” And then they just went back to watching Survivor. The thing is, that reaction to such a life changing decision, is the norm in my house. My parents put our happiness before all else: before our monetary potential, before our academics, and most notably, before themselves.
My how things change: Dave's a doctor, I'm 5'9''...but Cliff still enjoys gowns.
I think the best test as to how good of parenting skills one has, however, is when they kick their kids out of the nest and they see how they fly. And by fly, I mean how they make their own decisions. Parents hand them tools their whole life and then at some point, they check to see if you can do it alone. And if I may mention, I don’t want to do it alone. I’m not ready to grow up. But, Ann and Cliff gave me the flipping Prada of tools to make choices with–even if it’s not a choice they’d make me for me.
For example, when I decided to transfer colleges, it was a choice I made by myself. I can see my parents perspective on it: I was at a very good school and it was hard, but they knew the payoff would be worthwhile if I could just remember the Big Picture (future parents to be, take note. Big Picture is a metaphor that you should utilize often). But I didn’t. I made my own choice and they didn’t really get it at first. Except, they gave me every tool I needed to make that decision. And it hasn’t always been easy, but it was the right choice for me. If I had crappy parents or had been raised to not be independant and not make big girl choice solo, I’m not sure how this would have played out. But, I’m thinking not very well.I’m a super lucky little girl and I know it.
So, Happy Mather’s Day, Ann and Cliff! I’m sorry I’m not home to make you breakfast in bed, which would probalby just leave crumbs in that extra comfy bed you have (so a late night snack for Charlie), a mess in the kitchen, and likely give you a stomachache, since neither of you really eat breakfast anyways. Thanks for being super parents. If I knew sports, I’d totally use a metaphor here about how you should win some championship for parenting because your team is great. But I don’t. But I love you extra much anyways, I wish I could celebrate with you today!
I had never had the disgruntled experience of driving through Wisconsin until three weeks ago. My mother, always the savvy little traveler, had decided that we would avoid Chicago and drive to Minneapolis by instead taking the ferry that crosses whatever Great Lake is positioned to the left of Michigan (no one listens in middle school geography, okay? And if I really cared what lake was there, I’d use my iphone to google it. Actually memorizing the lake’s name seems a little overzealous to me) and drive through Wisconsin.
Oh Wisconsin. You waste of giant space.
I have a couple of key issues with Wisconsin.
The first is that this enormous state separates Michigan and Minneapolis. I realize that’s not Wisconsin’s fault, per se, but I’m not sure who else to blame but Wisconsin for its poor positioning strategy. Because of Wisconsin, a drive home for a weekend is impossible. And my God, have you ever tried to get a flight from Minneapolis to Michigan? Because of Wisconsin, it’s nearly $500 round trip! Flying to Chicago twice this summer is 80% cheaper. I could fly from Detroit to California and back for that price–and still have money to buy an LAX tshirt. Which is hands down, better than a Wisconsin tshirt. The only logical reasoning is that they have to jack the price up extra high in order to not lose money. After all, who wants to fly over Wisconsin?
Consider also that Wisconsin is known for…what? Cheese? Dairy farms? Great. I’m lactose Intolerant. I’m not exactly interested in spending 8 hours driving pass cheese shops and milk farms. Isn’t that a little discrimintory? How would you feel if I made you spend 8 hours driving in a car viewing things that would make your body bloat up like you’re five months into a pregnancy with twins? The two gas stations we stopped at had cheese wheels for sale at the register. Perfect. With my gasoline, I would really, really enjoy nothing more than a cheese wheel to snack on.
Wisconsin also has an extremely large Waterslide population. As in, every one mile there was a waterpark. Which is ridiculous because 1. Why are you people taking your kids to waterparks off highways? Doesn’t that seem a little dangerous? and 2. It’s colder in Wisconsin than Michigan, and our waterparks are either indoors or closed down for 9 months out of the year. So why exactly do you have so many waterparks that are outdoors? In this economy, does Waterpark scream good business investment to you?
Anyways, another point: the only fast food my mother and I both like…and really, the only “fast food” that doesn’t make me break out/need a nap/have a food baby/feel horrible, is Subway. So after a ferry ride across the Great Lake, a drive through the splendid town of Milwaukee, I was a little hungry. Subway was the answer. Finding a Subway in Wisconsin? No easy task. Forty five minutes into the search and Ann and I were still sandwichless. Our iphones didn’t have a signal. We were becoming sad. There was talk of resorting to McDonald’s, which would have been my first trip there (where I got something besides coffee or a smoothie) since 2006 (true, true story). Then, we spotted a highway sign directing us off the exit to a God-given gift, Subway!
Except in Wisconsin, those exits don’t tell it like it is. Sure, it was off the exit, but it was off the exit, two miles down the road, after a right turn, a left turn, a right turn, a U turn, a swear word, and a curse to Wisconsin directions. I was finally satisfied with my whole wheat and turkey meal, but I was not pleased with Wisconsin.
I tried to do some research on Wisconsin to find what else it offerred. I wanted, deep in my dark, intern heart, to give Wisconsin another shot. But all Wikipedia told me was that Wisconsin is 50.6% female (I really do not need competition to get boys, thank you very much. I also strongly believe in always keeping a 5 men to Maggie ratio in my life) and besides excelling as “America’s Dairyland,” Wisconsin is also known for it’s Oat Production. Oats and Cheese. What a state.
My proposal, therefore, is that Minnesota and Wisconsin trade spots. If God can create the land in one day, he should be able to shift states in a couple hours. Putting Minneapolis on the border of Minnesota and the previously discussed Great Lake would allow me to get home in 4 hours. It would allow me to get to Chicago in three hours. It would allow me to not have my face rubbed in the fact that my body is missing the enzyme necessary to naturally breakdown lactose.
And most importantly, it would allow me to not have to mix my gas purchase with my cheese wheel purchase.
Posted by M on Jan 17, 2010 in
Completely Biased Memories I was a very ambitious six year old. While many of my lazy peers were playing with legos or their my size barbies or just generally sitting around and picking their noses, I was deep in the trenches of planning my life. I’ve always been a planner and even when I was six, I had a gameplan. It went something like this:
Age 10: Become a world traveling ballerina (I had no idea I’d grow much too tall to control my limbs)
Age 13: Marry Michael Ready (Because teenagers could do whatever they want, although Michael Ready is now gay.)
Age 14-24: Have ten children
Oh yes. Ten. In my tender and innocent youth, I had no idea of the trials and tribulations of childbirth (or after birth. That was a real pleasant surprise when I found that one out. Or the fact that stuff TEARS, people. And there’s skin and poop and your feet swell and then you have to lose all the weight and get back to normal all the while this parasitical child that you wanted so much is demanding things like food and water!) But, when you’re a kid, you overlook the practical and go straight for the fun stuff. Like naming the kids and then planning out your incredible cool house with cute little bedrooms for each kid.
I’m pretty sure my ten kids had the kind of cool names only a little kid can give. Like “Crystal” and “Destiny.” Sounds like I was going to raise some future strippers, huh? The boys had equally cool names, like “JC” and “Tommy,” which pretty much means they were some hair gel and a dance class away from being members of a boy band.
This stage of having ten kids didn’t actually end early. I think I carried on this whim until I was in middle school. But at some point, I lost a little of my motivation for pushing out ten screaming alien lookalikes and the numbers slowly dropped. It went from 10 to 8 to 5 to what I’d like now, 3 or 4 little monsters. Maybe an adoption to even things out or if my body begins to look like I’m in dire need of a Mommy Makeover Kate Gosselin style.
Some people never know if they want to have kids. Having kids is the only thing I’ve ever known I want to do. I don’t really have any idea of what I want as a career (those who said I’d figure that out in college, you handed me a torch of hope that has not worked out), but I do know I want to be a Mom. For goodness sake, I still had babydolls until I was in high school (relax, I didn’t still play with them. I just felt guilty putting them in storage).
My mom used to worry a little about how much I wanted to have kids. In fact, when I was 12 or 13, every time I’d utter “I can’t even wait to have kids someday,” my mom, without missing a beat, would respond, “When you’re old enough and financially stable.” It’s kind of become a running joke. If you look back in my blogposts, every time I bring up kids, that tagline is sure to follow. She nailed it into my head. Of course, this turned out to be unnecessary because I really enjoy being thin and I don’t want to ruin my body with a little Maggie Jr. until I’m old enough and financially secure enough to afford smart lipo.
Because I plan on being a super great mom (much like my own, I might add), I started working on my mothering skills a couple years ago. What’s that mean? Well, I learned to do stuff like scrapbook and bake really good chocolate chip cookies and birthday cakes or how to exist on five hours of sleep. I also perfected how to take an obnoxious amount of photos because, as I tell people when they roll their eyes and pose for me, “someday you’ll want these memories.”
Still, at newly 21 (in case anyone has forgotten that I am now legally able to drink–I apologize to all 20 year olds still waiting because I am seriously the biggest waste of a legitimate ID), I’ve got some time before I start breeding. Which is great because I am not financially and independant stable and I am certainly not old enough (I still watch the Disney Channel. I don’t want to enjoy the same television shows as 2 year old kid). And by some time, I mean a lot of time, which is great because if I ever go back to my plan of having ten kids, I’m going to need all the rest I can get.
Posted by M on Jan 10, 2010 in
Completely Biased Memories On October 25, 2005, I was a junior at DeWitt High School. As Carly and I call it, we were finishing up the “Awkward Years” and moving into a new era, “Still Awkward, but Concerned We’ll Never Grow Out of It.” I was also still in the time of my life when I thought for sure I would grow up and write for a magazine or a newspaper or maybe a really prestigious website, like collegehumor.com (this was before I found out that in English classes, very opinionated people talk for very long amounts of time. This was when I also learned I don’t have patience). This was a little before Facebook swept the high school nations–in fact, I was the third or fourth kid at my school on facebook and I had four “friends” for at least the first few months. So, before the world of facebook and myspace –I would like to proudly state I never had one of those, thank you very much–there was a little thing called Xanga. It was kind of like an online journal, and while many people wrote about their days and their crushes and their sports teams, I used mine to sarcastically comment on my high school, my life, and my family. Some of these entries were received well, some got me a firm talking to by my father.
Nonetheless, Xanga eventually disappeared and I made my entries private because well, some are a little embarrassing. My mother already has pictures of me with “The Haircut” in third grade. I really don’t need any other ammunition to ensure that a) no one will ever marry me or b) that if someone does, these artifacts are sure to come out and scare the poor bastard away.
A few days ago, I remembered that I wrote an entry called, “21 Things to Do Before I’m 21.” I searched through my old stomping grounds of a weblog to track it down. I think out of all 21, I’ve managed about 5. But let’s review:
21 things i want to do before i turn 21:
1. get a tattoo
2. skydive
3. get into college
4. make spur of the moment vacation plans
5. get two beta (??) fish and watch them fight eachother.
6. Buy a puppy. give him a questionable name.
7. go to mexico with high school friends
8. go to las vegas
9. run a marathon
10. learn to use a stick shift
11. learn to change a flat tire
12. learn to cook
13. decide what I want to be when I grow up
14. spend a summer far away from dewitt–and everyone i know
15. go to europe without parental supervision
16. eat an entire pizza
17. graduate from high school
18. stay in bed for an entire weekend.
19. volunteer in asia
20. dye hair
21. ride in a hot air balloon.
The list, as you can tell, is a little random. I’m not sure how I made the jump from volunteer in asia to get a tattoo, but I assure you no needles from questionable parties have come near me. Don’t worry, like a homework assignment I didn’t do, I have an excuse for every one of these:
1. get a tattoo–Now this just isn’t practical. The only place that would even be an adequate place to get it (on the lower back, away from any possibility of a stretch mark) now has the connotation ”tramp stamp.” In addition, even if I were eligible for the tramp category, allowing me such a stamp, that would mean no pain meds for when I someday get knocked up (when I’m old enough and married to a wealthy old man) and am forced to expel a small parasite out of my body. Plus, I can’t even decide what color I want my yoga pants from Victoria’s Secret to be (charcoal or black? Leave your opinion in the comments). How am I humanly supposed to pick a tattoo?
2. skydive- Well, I went cliff diving twice (okay, once. The pansy ten foot jump in Jamaica probably doesn’t count). Okay, this one just didn’t happen either. What’s the score now? 0/2?
3. get into college- YES! This one I managed. Not only did I get into college, but I transferred colleges. So it’s like I got into college twice! I firmly believe this one gives me extra credit.
4. make spur of the moment vacation plans- I remember wanting to make this a point because I really wanted to be more spontaneous. I think though, it’s pretty hard to make spur of the moment vacation plans when you’re under 21 and therefore can’t really go anywhere on the spur of the moment. I’ll shift this to my next list, for when I’m older and have a sugar daddy to whisk me off to far away lands.
5. get two beta (??) fish and watch them fight eachother- The only fight I’m interested in watching is one between Paris Hilton and Lindsey Lohan. Preferably to the death.
6. Buy a puppy. give him a questionable name- If we break this down into two parts, it was accomplished. I did get a puppy–but his name is the nice-boy name Charlie. However, I did also get a fighting fish named “Michael Vick.” It was at the height of the Michael Vick controversy so as you can probably imagine, it was a real crowd pleaser.
7. go to mexico with high school friends-fail fail fail. I still go on springbreak with my parents. Oh well. Next year: Bahamas with my roommates. I guess I’ll be 22, but since I’m planning for it, I hereby award myself partial credit.
8. go to las vegas- Sixteen year old me did not realize that going to Vegas under the age of 21 is really not very fun. Of course, that’s not why I never went, but it is a nice excuse to help me sleep better at night.
9. run a marathon- I tried. I gave it 100%. I trained and everything. And a week before the race, I got injured due to horrible shoes, overrunning, and the undeniable fact that I run like a girl.
10. learn to use a stick shift- Do cars still have stick shifts? This is just an unnecessary goal. Maybe if I meet a nice backwoods farmer boy who has a rusty beat up truck, much like out of T-Swift song, this would be necessary. But so far, automatic’s doing the job for me.
11. learn to change a flat tire- I learned how to call my Dad if I get a flat tire and Auto-Owners if my car won’t start. Success.
12. learn to cook- I can cook a little, but my skills for baking are really becoming something worth noting. I mean, I haven’t even messed up a recipe in a month :) All kidding aside, I can make cookies, brownies, cupcakes, bars, cakes–anything with chocolate really. But as far as food with nutritional value, I can make salad, toast, chicken, and cereal. If you have plans to come stay with me ever, I suggest we order out.
13. decide what I want to be when I grow up- I looked into earning my MRS or some type of major that allowed me to simply stay home and bake chocolate chip cookies all day, but apparently that’s not a degree. MSU claims they offer a degree in almost everything, I feel like this one wouldn’t be too hard to pull off.
14. spend a summer far away from dewitt–and everyone i know- A little silly, but even at 16, I’d read a lot of Nicholas Sparks books and had discovered that a) everyone I love will someday die and leave me alone, but I’ll either bounce back or find love in an unexpected encounter and b) everyone should do something that makes them uncomfortable. For me, that was going to Europe for the summer alone. It was uncomfortable, as predicted. But I also came back in love with food, coffee, and shopping. So, we’ll call it a victory.
15. go to europe without parental supervision- Thanks, Study Abroad! You’re just knocking things off my list.
16. eat an entire pizza- At 16, I also was not as lactose intolerant as I eventually became within the last four years. So no, 16 year old me. I will not eat cheese.
17. graduate from high school- Success. My Dad gave me my diploma. It was heartwarming.
18. stay in bed for an entire weekend- Tragically, the older I get, the less lazy I get. I have stuff to do! I don’t have time to lay around! I have to hit the treadmill so I can take advantage of being 21!
19. volunteer in asia- I tutor an Asian. That counts, right?
20. dye my hair- Oh hell yes, did I do this. I took it from a nice light brown (streaked from the sun, totally not a good look with my slightly pale complexion) and make it a nice chestnut brown. You’re probably begining to think I’m a total badass and you would not be mistaken.
21. ride in a hot air balloon- Why is this even on my list? I mean, fun? Probably. Goal worthy? Definitely not. Stupid teenagers and their lists.
In case you’re keeping track (because I’m not), you’ll note that most of this list did NOT happen. Bummer. To bounce back, I thought about making a 25 things to Do Before I’m 25 list, but since this list didn’t go too well, I felt like I was setting myself up for failure.
So, what do you think, team? What things should be on your list for the coming years? E-mail me. Oh, and if you know any schools where I can get that MRS degree, feel free to send a brochure my way.
Posted by M on Sep 7, 2009 in
Completely Biased Memories Some people hate spiders. Some people hate dogs. Some people have hatred of really peculiar things, like the smell of rain in the summer or particular types of clowns.
Me? I hate water.
Yeah, I get it’s one of nature’s three main elements. And I appreciate that without out, our system couldn’t function and that my body needs it to survive. Thanks water, for that, anyways. And actually, drinking water is completely fine by me. I enjoy a bottle of water as much as the next dehydrated girl.
But water used as entertainment value really irriates me. A body of water that I can splash around and in and potentially drown in? No thanks, I’ll pass. Showers? Necessary, for sure, but totally a waste of time. And body water? There’s just nothing quite like not being able to zip up those extra snug jeans because it’s “that time” and my body’s bloated out.
The feud between water and I go way, way back. I was always the worst in swim class. My mom felt it was important for a kid to learn how to swim, so she signed me up for those classes through our local high school that lets you learn to swim over the summer. That was a big fail. It’s pretty hard to learn how to do anything but wade when you refuse to put your face under water.
When I was four or five, I had a near drowning incident. When recounts of this story have changed (as in, I exaggerate them and my mom refuses to admit that what occurred could have been life or death), the general bones of the story are as follows: I fell in a pool, I had to be saved. Had I not been saved, I would have died.
Such a near drowning experience at such a young age is difficult to overcome. And I really did carry this hatred with me. I never became a strong swimmer and while I of course take showers, my roommates love me because I’m in and I’m out. It’s like a blink. An old boyfriend used to make fun of me because he had to wonder how a girl could wash her hair and soap up so quickly. “I hustle,” I’d always reply. “I go as fast as I can and hope that the worst will be over soon.”
When I was a sophomore in college, there was an incident involving a river and a strong current and once again, I had to be saved. While I was riding down the river and it seemed like death was imminent, all I could think was, “Water you bitch. You finally won, didn’t you?”
Of course, I did manage to survive that little incident (Ha water! How you like me now!), it’s kind of made me even wearier of the bonds between hydrogen and oxygen. I barely touched the water all summer, except when I was in Italy and cliff diving. Even then, I just closed my eyes and hoped it’d be over before I knew it. My lake house could be in a desert because I’ve barely touched the lake in years. I don’t do pool parties.
To be clear, I’m not scared of water. It’s just not my thing. It’s like most girls and sports: we’re aware they exist, we’d just prefer not to sit through them. Or discuss them. Or acknowledge their presence.
My goal for this year is to tame the wild beast that is water. I’m going to start by learning how to swim. I’ll let you know how that fares. A 20 year old in swim lessons? Only I could be that ridiculous.
Posted by M on May 25, 2009 in
Completely Biased Memories,
Random Blooming into the young, delicate flower I am today did not happen over night. Actually, if my looks were a flower, they’d be one of those rare species that gardeners love to nurture for years and year and years just so that they can peak for about five minutes before they decompose.
The awkward years span from third grade to my second year in college (which for those of us keeping score, means now). In family sitcoms or in the case of 99% of the human population, the awkward years only span a few months or a few years. A few pimples here, a little frizzy hair, and then magically, the kid’s got straight teeth, a nice, cancun tan, and that skinny, bony frame is just a blip in the scrapbook. But not me. Oh no. I was blessed with thick, uncontrollable dark hair, pale, pale skin, and a fast metabolism that means any chance of some nice boobs are so out of the question.
Third grade was one of the roughest years. A combination of a poor hair dresser and a mother who thought a short haircut would be cute, led to a boy type hair cut on my dainty head. It was not cute. It was not even cute in that “aww, cute kid with a crappy haircut” way. I’ve hid most of the pictures. I only use them now to reference “The Beginning of the Awkward Phase.”
Being all legs and constantly tripping over myself and flat ground was especially amusing during fourth and fifth grade. I even got braces, the first girl in my grade, which made me especially cute. Being that I hit 5′5” in fifth grade, clothes were also a bit of an issue. My poor mother tried, but nothing really fit that was modest enough for an oversized ten year old to wear. Anything that did fit was made for teenagers in their Britney Spear’s phases and everything that was modest enough to cover the midriff of a ten year old, could not cover my midriff due to the fact that I was, in fact, a ten year old giant.
Junior high was a little better, but my parents are republicans, so I wasn’t allowed to dress like a slut. Unfortunately, dressing like a slut was kind of the trend when I was fourteen, so I was mainly awkward because I was not allowed to look like a young hooker.
In high school, I finally began to go lose some of the awkward stuff. Because I finally stopped growing, my parents felt comfortable shelling out the dough to buy me pants that did not look like I was preparing for a flood. Indeed, being skinny was no longer embarrassing, but kind of nice. The pale skin was still an issue, but modern technology at least allowed the frizzy mess of fuzz on my head to fall down my shoulders in nice, straight lines.
Of course, I still could not control my body. I tripped over just about everything, including lines on the basketball court or just myself. My reactions were a bit delayed, which meant in volleyball practice, it wasn’t uncommon for me to be hit in the face. Or to hit myself in the face. I have a lot of limbs and they’re pretty hard to control. So, I often ended up with punctures to my face that I had to create stories for just so I wouldn’t make a fool out of myself when people questioned why in fact, I had a two inch gash on my nose (went to raise my hand, accidentally hit myself in the face).
I have discovered that awkwardness is directly proportional to how comfortable you feel about yourself. So, things got pretty awkward my freshman year in college when I wasn’t too pleased with my life. My curly hair began to take over my life and I stopped wearing make up. Not that make up is necessary to be pretty (I still rarely wear it), I just find that make up is one of those things that just makes you feel better about how you look.
If my awkwardness was a graph, I would say I am on the descend. I mean, I’ve still got probably another year until I stop dropping my computer on my face (yes, that happened) or stop tripping in high heels (that happened two weeks ago!). Indeed, my pale skin is still pale–although, now I say it is fair and being conscious of skin cancer is almost kind of hip, so I just say that I’m watching out for melanoma. No one can badger a girl for avoiding cancer, can they?
Do you ever feel like the entire world is just against you?
Like you’re MSU and UNC got a twenty point lead and man, you’re trying pretty hard, but there is just not enough hours in the day (like that sports allusion? Thanks. That’s all I’ve got).
I think I stay a little too busy maybe. I spend 15 hours a week in school, ten in work, seven training, 10 at fraternity events, and the rest studying. I’m so tired all the time. Even when I’m working super hard at everything, it feels like I’m never doing as well as I want to. I don’t want to just “do” everything. I want to be PERFECT at everything! Dammit! Perfection!
I’ve finally discovered the answer to succeeding at everything: A Nanny.
I need a nanny. It’s not just a desire, it’s a freakin’ necessity. Think of how much easier life would be with a nanny. No more time spent waiting for the bus to take you to and fro’. Nope, the nanny and her minivan can take me to class, to work, to Louis Street, to the library. And when I’m ready to go home? I’ll have one of those awesome Disney Princess cellphones that only have like, once number programmed: the nanny. And she’ll come fetch me.
I can have lunches delivered to me. Fresh lunches. No more Healthy Choice Soy Chicken nuggets! At night, I could have dinner! I think our apartment deserves to have its oven used at least once this year.
And the nanny would tutor me when I don’t understand everything for a class. She could make flashcards to quiz me and when I fail or don’t do so hot on something (as is my life currently), Nanny can rub my back and give me fresh baked chocolate chip cookies (Mama Ann’s recipe, of course) to make me feel all better.
Since I’m so busy, Nanny would have some down time. While I’m at school or work, Nanny can clean my room and do my laundry. She can also go grocery shopping for me, fix my dresser which broke a few weeks ago, sort through my clothes to give them away, and then she can take a nap. After all, even Nannies need a break.
Nanny could be my wingwoman on the weekends, picking me up and dropping me off from events I’m stuck going to. She can tell me if I look cute or if the outfit needs changing. And when I do long runs on the weekend, Nanny can time me, make sure I don’t die, and reassure me that in fact, I am not lost even though I am in a sketchy neighborhood (actually, maybe Nanny should take judo just to ensure that I am safe in said sketchy neighborhoods).
Nanny could also respond to the emails and voicemails I get, but am generally too lazy to do anything with. My friends would probably think something was wrong with me though if I just randomly started returning their calls or doing what their messages asked. I’d have to have Nanny send out an email clarifying that my life was now her duty, just so no one freaked out.
And now, since it’s late at night, Nanny would come into my room, rub my back, and whisper sweet stories about candy mountains and soft clouds until I fell asleep.
Anyways, the position is up for grabs. Obviously, since you’d be nannying a college student, the job would be extremely fulfilling morally, so that would be the reimbursement as opposed to pay. Please shoot me an email if you’re interested. Just give me a few weeks to respond.
Perpetual students need not apply.
Posted by M on Feb 1, 2009 in
Completely Biased Memories When I was a mere toddler, perhaps two or three, my parents took me swimming at their friend’s pool. Of course, it was more like trespassing than swimming, considering that their friend wasn’t home and while they had said Ann and Cliff could bring the little rascals over to play, they didn’t expect my parents to throw a regular pool party while they were gone.
In addition to trespassing, we also managed to borrow some food from their house, putting burglary on the list of criminal offenses committed by the Flood Family. Yet, I suppose we should be grateful because it very nearly became the scene of my demise.
Now, what exactly happened during that pool party which led to my very near death is somewhat debatable. Or more like, my parents believe a completely false version and my story, the true one, is often mocked and claimed to be the fiction of a creative imagination. But, as the victim of the situation, I think it’s fair to assume that my story is the most accurate.
Let me set the scene. It’s a glorious summer day. The sun is shining, my two favorite friends of my childhood, Nolen and Maureen are playing with us, and our parents are on the other side of the pool, hanging out. As I am a tiny child, I cannot swim, but I like the water so Nolen, always the gentleman, lets me push him in. Unfortunately, as I go to do just that, I lost my center of gravity and fell into the pool myself. And that was when I almost died.
I’m told I was only underwater for a few seconds. And I admit, that’s likely true. But, even today, I can still remember those few seconds. I couldn’t breathe, I was thrashing around, and of course, there was a light. In essence, I was on the brink of death.
Then Cliff and his best buddy, Kevin, hopped in the pool and scooped me out. Apparently I didn’t even cry. I’m pretty tough like that. Plus, when you’ve just seen the light and are aware that you almost died, you’re a little too shocked to cry. And then your mom offers you a snack and you go from shock to being distracted by food and you never really get around to crying.
Seventeen years after this life changing moment, I am still scarred. After that day, water and I never really saw eye to eye. Actually, I hate it. My showers last five minutes on a long day, I hate washing my hands or my face, and I still can’t swim. I prefer Beauty and the Beast over the Little Mermaid hands down. I can, however, doggy paddle. But I can’t hold my breath underwater. I guess I should be embarrassed but I’m not. Some people were just born to keep their feet on land.
(*special thanks to annie flood for inspiration)
