Posted by M on Feb 5, 2012 in
Deep Thoughts,
My Current Life EI’m going through a phase. And I really, really hate it. You know when you’re stuck in a rut and you know you’re stuck in a rut and it’s frustrating, but the only thing more frustrating than being stuck in that rut is figuring out how to get out of that rut? If you followed that logic, give yourself a high five.
When I moved to LA six months ago, I was NOT ready for all the alone time I would be getting. I cried, cried, cried like a little baby. Ask my poor boyfriend, who at one point was probably pretty scared to call me because every time he had to hang up, I’d be all weepy. I didn’t have much of a social life in LA because 1. I didn’t know anyone and no one wants to be friends with a temporary resident and 2. I’m a pretty good Christian girl who doesn’t really drink much and while people say “you don’t have to drink to have fun!” they’re not exactly beating on your door to go to sober happy hour.
So, for six months, I did a lot of stuff alone. I ran in the mornings alone (a habit I picked up in college because I need some alone time from roommates–ironic, right?), had breakfast alone, had dinner alone, watched The Bachelor (anyone else infatuated with Bachelor Ben like I am?) alone, and spent weekends exploring, hiking, shopping, or hitting the beach alone. Don’t feel too sorry for me, I definitely had a few friends. But I spent a lot of time being by myself. And it was okay because I knew it was temporary.
Alone again, alone again
Of course, now the issue is, I’m back in Indiana/Michigan–my midwest people–and I’m struggling a little. It’s like I’m re-entering society and it’s awkward. I feel like a kid going into middle school. And I feel selfish. And like there’s something wrong with me. Which there totally is because I got used to being alone…I even started to like it (I know, I know, it’s a social mistake to admit that you actually enjoy selfishly spending your time doing whatever you want) and now I need to readjust to being with people again. It took me a few weeks to figure out how to be alone, so I figure I deserve a few weeks to figure out how to be with other people.
So that’s where I’m at today. Happy Sunday!
Tomorrow’s my second first day of work at The Company. Sympathy texts welcome.
I would like to call CPS and report that my parents flew me to California and abandoned me, however, after some investigation into child abuse laws, it turns out that deserting your child in a fully furnished apartment, complete with food and new clothes, in Southern California when she’s 22 years old, isn’t technically abandonment. Needless to say, a social worker has not be assigned to my case and my parents are not yet in jail. Not that they should sleep soundly, either. I won’t stop until they come let me revert into my childhood.
As you may have discovered, I’ve recently left the world of lollipops and rainbows and been shipped off into the Real World. And unlike MTV’s version, this doesn’t include binge drinking in a mansion all day. Nope, I work. 8 to 5. Every day. For the rest of my life. Holy depressing. Does anyone else find it a little upsetting that you go to school for 18 years only to be cut off by your parents at the end of it? Like, making me work hard labor every day isn’t bad enough…now you’re going to make me sink or swim alone? Thanks guys. It’s like I just got cut from Team Flood.
I’ve always made fun of my daddy for being tightwad, but it turns out, I am too. I got his overbite, his dyslexia, and apparently, his stingeness. Now that I’m 100% responsible for my own bank account, I watch that thing like it’s my premature infant in the NICU. I budget every. single. penny. If my lunch cost $5.36, you bet your ass that I’ve marked that amount in at least two spreadsheets. And then I instantly start calculating ways to have a cheaper lunch. Of course, I live in So-Cal, so the odds of me getting a cheaper lunch that’s just as healthy is pretty small, but I guess in a former life I lived through the depression because I’m totally going to try.
I also have a new distaste for any student on facebook or twitter that complains about classes. Is it hard for your little ass to sit in a lecture hall on the internet, not paying attention? No. It’s not. So stop complaining. Talk to me when you have to get up at 5:30 am to run before work because then you work all day and after work, you’re so exhausted from sitting in one position all day that you literally cannot move. Yeah, let’s chat then, you little demons.
Obviously, I’m ready to retire. I’ve been working for 3 days now, so my 401k is probably almost ready to be cashed in, right?
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 Apr 21, 2011 in
Deep Thoughts It’s an interesting feeling, being 22 and in airport going to see your brother.
I’m graduating college in two weeks and I’m in Maryland, sitting on a sticky vinyl seat, waiting to board a connecting flight to Boston Logan. I took the 6 am flight this morning because it was cheaper and would let me see my big bro for an entire Thursday instead of flying in late. Of course, my thrify ass refused to leave from Lansing, so I anticipated waking up and driving to Grand Rapids at 3:45. Apparently driving over an hour in the middle of the night didn’t set well with my parents so as usual, my dad bailed me and got me a hotel room.
The Comfort Inn, a shithole stacked next to a Kia Dealership, has a park and go package. That is probably the only reason people stay there: so they can go the next morning. I told my friend James on facebook chat last night that if I died, it was probably the dark haired guy two rooms over who spent the majority of the night walking his 10 pound chubby yorkie up and down the hallway. Unlike my father’s adoration of my reasonably sized and healthy yorkie, the gentlemen reaked of creepiness.
I haven’t lived in the same house with my brother in over six years. In fact, I can’t remember when we last spent the night together, just the two of us. He lives in Boston and goes to Hahhhvard, a little factoid I like to drop on my boyfriend’s more pretentious friends. Which probably does not bring them down but instead makes them think that I’m pretentious. That is a little ironic considering David is the least pretentious person I know. He’s brave and he’s got a good heart and he’s a genuinely good person. Actually, the most pretentious thing about him is when you talk to him for too long, you start to feel a little guilty. Like, he doesn’t just think that it’s bad that we overfish our waters to feed humans. He thinks it’s really bad. So bad that he doesn’t eat fish. Well…I think it’s bad too. Which I say as I order the salmon from just about every restaurant I go to.
I’ve been doing this Yoga thing for a little while now and every session begins and ends with a motivational speech. Frankly, I think it should begin and end with “Good for you, fatty McCollege student. You came here before you walked two doors down to get loaded off Long Islands and French fries.” But I’m not the teacher, so I guess I’m not really allowed to make suggestions. Anyways, the teacher started a class off once where she said every person has a lesson to teach. So when you meet someone, pay attention. For some of my more rique friends, the lesson seems to be “don’t be like me.” But for my older brother, it seems to be, “Put yo’ money where yo’ mouth is.” Practice what you preach. If you want to change the world, start changing it. And you won’t change much by chugging long islands, no matter how delicious they are when combined with the exact correct proportions of French fries and ketchup.
The only thing I’ve ever wanted to be in my entire life is a mother. I remember when I was six or seven, I whined for weeks to Santa Claus about how much I wanted a water baby. For those of you who didn’t have whiny little girls in the early 90s, a water baby is basically a rubber doll filled with water. Creative name right? I’d like to be in on that meeting. I’m sure the genius behin that really had on his thinking cap that day.
In hindsight, I have no idea why I wanted one. I’m guessing they had a really cool commercial and that Amanda Zimm this girl in Preschool that I wanted to be just like, had one. They were scares, but my mom is like a Christmas Angel. The woman can track down any gift for anyone. Ask her someday about the great Xbox Hunt of 2006. It’ll rock your world. Anyways, I wanted a water baby and because my parents love me and because I was the most well-behaved child EVER, Santa brought me one. And brought my little brother one. Jake and I, back in the day, were more like twins that siblings. We did everything together. In fact, even today, I swear sometimes my stomach hurts when his hurts and I won’t find out until weeks later that he was sick. Or sometimes I’ll burst into tears and not realize why until my Mom calls and tells me Jake had a rough day. My boyfriend often tells me that it’s like Jake has me in a trance, like no matter what he does, I’ll excuse him and smile because I love him too much to see anything wrong with him.
Right. Water babies. So, Santa brings me a water baby. Except Toys R Us was out of Water Babies and so therefore, my parents got us African American ones. This was before doing stuff like this to teach your kids diversity was such a cool thing. But, I named her Chelsea and I carried her everywhere. I used my flat chest (not much has changed in that department) to breast feed her, I refilled her water through a hole in her back, and I asked Amanda Zimm if I looked like my daughter. She assured me she could see the resemblence in her tribal features and my Swedish pale skin. Years later, when I went to pack up my dolls and collectables to figure out which ones to keep and which ones to donate to charity, I wrapped her up so carefully because even at 14, I still cared for this rubbery little girl.
I didn’t exactly pick my major because I love Human Resources. I picked my major because it was practical and if you don’t know what you want to do, it’s best to be practical. I stuck with it because it turned out, things like Math are actually easy for me and therefore, a degree in business wasn’t out of reach. A big shout out to my public school’s math department, which once labeled me slow: My 3.8 college math GPA would like to tell you to suck it. You can’t major in motherhood, although frankly, a mom training would probably benefit a lot of mamas out there.
So, someday, I’d like to be a mom. Not today, because well, you have to get knocked up for that, and the potential sperm donors at the Baltimore Airport aren’t exactly prime material this morning. But, someday. Except the closer I get to “someday,” the more freaked out I get. Have you people looked around? How to children even survive these days?! I don’t even know how I make it through the day. And how did my parents even do it? I look back over some of the stuff I did and I don’t know I’m even alive…and I was a good kid!
But I guess that’s the point of practicing what you preach. If you want to do something, you do it despite the risks. So someday, I’ll be a mom and David will still probably not be eating fish. And we’ll seem like we’re worlds apart, but really, we’ll be accomplishing the same goals, just on different scales. And even when we’re old, our parents will probably still be bailing us out.
Posted by M on Jun 25, 2010 in
Deep Thoughts While I usually write in this blog to declare sarcastic viewpoints on the world around me, I do have something that’s been on my mind a lot lately. And that’s body image.
I’m currently training for a half marathon, which means I run or cross train almost every day. I’m finally back in long-distance running shape, after a school year of fitting in barely effective work outs between lectures, study groups, and extracirriculars. This means I’m gaining muscle and becoming lean. It also means I’m gaining weight.
I might look skinnier, but I assure you the number on the scale is higher than it’s been in a long time. It doesn’t seem fair that getting in shape means having a higher weight, but after watching my food intake for a few days, I resolved that I wasn’t one of those runners that eat the kitchen sink after every run. I simply have muscle in my stomach, on my legs, on my arms. I’m a 21 year old girl and I can’t weight what I did when I was 13 anymore. I want to have kids and if I didn’t accept these changes in my body, I probably wouldn’t be a very healthy vessel for the very healthy babies I hope to have.
Still, the numbers climbing on the scale really bother me. I keep rechecking myself in the mirror: am I really becoming that much heavier? I question my decision to participate in these two half marathons. If they’re making me gain weight, is it really worth it? I don’t drink alcohol. I don’t drink any liquids except green tea and water, and my food is limited to a very healthy diet inspired by Target Living and Food, Inc. Am I such an anomoly that I’m the only person in the world who’s going to get fat off of oatmeal and green beans? The fact that I’m bothered by the numbers on the scale also worries me. I’m not interested in becoming one of those girls that counts calories or is too scared of gaining weight to spend a night at the bar or an afternoon baking cookies. But that’s exactly what’s happening.
So why is this an issue? Why is finally getting my body into great shape causing me to develop unhealthy concerns?
A part is certainly the media. Does anyone remember when this picture circulated the news outlets?
This is supermodel Tyra Banks. In this picture, she weighs 161 pounds at a very model height of 5′10”, putting her BMI at a very healthy 23.1. Tabloids blasted her for being “obese” and Ms. Banks immediately went on the defense, appearing on Good Morning America and eventually taking the cover of People Magazine, telling her critics to “Kiss my fat ass!” because she was healthy and young girls needed to see a healthy role model instead of the stick thin, ribs protruding, tiny waisted models plastered all over fashion runways. The picture above isn’t flattering, but Tyra, at this weight and shot from the right angle, looks amazing:
Except, after all the preaching about how healthy Tyra was and how she was being a good role model for girls everywhere, two years later, Tyra lost 30 pounds. She claims she watched Sex and the City for a half hour day while on the elliptical and replaced her unhealthy meals with better choices. Can someone just yell bullshit at her? I find it competely offensive that she paraded her healthy body in the media and then turned around and paraded her unhealthy, 131 pound body in the same manner. Tyra’s new BMI is 18.65, which is barely in the healthy range of BMI and frankly, most nutritionists would consider anything below a 20 unhealthy:
Frankly, I don’t give a shit if Tyra Banks is in the healthy range of her BMI or not. But as a young girl who’s stuck checking out her image every time I want to read a magazine, I would appreciate it if she would stop sending mixed messages. After losing 30 pounds, she was once again in People Magazine–but this time for her weight lose regiment. And nobody even pointed out how completely hypocritical she was being.
Tyra Banks, of course, is not the only celebrity guilty of this tactic. Consider Jennifer Love Hewitt:
This picture was taken in December 2007 when Jennifer was vacationing in Hawaii with her boyfriend. This particular image, as well as several other ones taken from even less flattering angles, was on the front page of the National Enquirer and New of the World with headlines proclaiming that she was a heifer, a whale, a previously tiny girl who had let herself go. Jennifer took a stand, writing in her blog:
“A size 2 is not fat! Nor will it ever be. And being a size 0 doesn’t make you beautiful. … To all girls with butts, boobs, hips and a waist, put on a bikini – put it on and stay strong.”
Since then, Jennifer has been in People Magazine and other glossies discussing how her boyfriend helps her diet, her fitness regiment, and how she’s toning down. But, she, of course, still loves her body.
I guess I’m confused. Jennifer and Tyra say they like themselves heavier, yet they lost all the weight they were ridiculed for. Can someone clarify for me how this works? Can someone explain why no one has called them out for their contradicting opinions?
Even if I wanted to lose a few pounds, I’m not sure where I’d even start. I suppose I could follow any of the diet plans advertised through pop-up windows that launch everytime I open my facebook page or positioned squarely next to my email. Using big brother antics to know my location and secret fear of obesity, they announce, “Looking for a Flat Tummy in Minneapolis? The secret? Click here!” or “Michigan State Girls Diet Right! Our Company can help!” I didn’t know I was looking for a flat tummy or that I was on a diet! Why are those the advertisements google chooses to show me? I just want to check my email, I wasn’t looking for a body analysis.
It’s impossible to turn on a television without seeing Jillian Michael’s telling me to get off my ass and exercise. Her TV show in itself is a giant contradiction: I’m supposed to sit on my couch and watch people work out? She muses that people will be inspired to get up and do the same. Doesn’t she realize that if I get inspired, I won’t watch her show? I’m tired of seeing the Kardashian sisters, a family who’s made their name because their dad defended OJ Simpson and their oldest daughter had a sex tape encourage me to buy their weight loss pills to “really ramp up my diet.” Most recently, I saw this ad during an episode of “The Secret Life of the American Teenager,” a show aimed at 12-18 year olds.
Diets in general are ridiculous anyways. They all claim to hold the easy path to weight loss success: Avoid carbs! Only eat watermeleon! Only eat this cookie twice a day! Have a shake! Eat our cereal instead of real food! Eat grapefruit! Eat cabbage soup! Don’t drink soda! Drink magic potion water! Only drink food! Don’t eat after 6! Don’t eat fruit after 3! Don’t eat after dinner! No carbs after 6! And of course, the age old wives tale: When you’re hungry, just enjoy that feeling because it’s your body burning fat.
I’m not a nutritionist. But, doesn’t it seem like your body should do a little of everything? Have some carbs, have some watermelon, eat soup sometimes? And why the hell can’t I have fruit after 3? At 3, does my body automatically convert fruit into cellulite and plant it on my ass? Furthermore, that feeling of hunger? That’s your body telling you it would like to be fed. It’s actually hungry because it’s out of fuel to burn so it can do stuff for you, like regulate your heartbeat and make sure your brain has the energy to think.
I’m baffled by the messages sent to me about exercise too. I’m supposed to exercise 5 times a week for at least 20 minutes, but I should also exercise 5 times a week for 30 minutes, and I should also try and do some intense exercise 5 times a week for 15 minutes. And I should cross train. And I should walk everywhere I can, always take the stairs instead of the elevator, park as far from the mall as I can so I get extra exercise in walking to and from the shops, invest in Sketcher’s new crazy shoes that apparently will make my walking even more effective so that I can get even skinnier while I walk, and I should invest in a pedometer so I know just how far I’ve walked every single day.
What the hell?! Between exercising as much as all these experts say and eating all these things (or more like, not eating) all these things these experts say, will I even have any time left over to have a job, raise kids, get married, and maybe watch some reality television every once in a while? It doesn’t seem possible.
The worst, offenders, however, are models like Gisele or Heidi Klum, or really, any celebrity mother who gives birth and within weeks, parades her Post-Baby body on the front of magazines.
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On behalf of women everywhere, including future and current mothers, these magazine covers and these people offend me. Their ability to lose 35 pounds in six weeks, while unhealthy certainly, is their own damn business. But, parading their bodies on magazine covers and giving interviews about how they did a lot of “prenatal yoga” and “breast fed” their way back into their size 00’s is completely misleading. Gisele, who gave birth recently to a baby boy, Ben, was modeling for Victoria’s Secret’s Spring Catelouge two months later. Her secret?
“I did kung fu up until two weeks before Benjamin was born, and yoga three days a week…I think a lot of people get pregnant and decide they can turn into garbage disposals. I was mindful about what I ate, and I gained only 30 pounds.”
And how did she get fit so fast?
“What helps me is the fact that I had a natural birth and am breast-feeding.”
The smart side of my brain just cannot believe that breast feeding got her looking like this:
The truth is, they hired a trainer, a chef, and a nanny and worked out until they couldn’t move. I’ve had friends younger than these women give birth and I’ve seen them six weeks post-birth. They can barely keep their eyes open, much less find the time to push out six miles on a treadmill and cook a healthy, organic, colorful meal of fish and steam veggies. They’d rather nap.
With the media shooting all of these images my way, it’s a constant battle between what I see every day on the street: beautiful, healthy women, and what I see everyday on the news: beautiful, very tiny women. My intelligent side says I should aim for heathy, but my vain side wants to be as tiny and glamourous as the woman on the cover of this month’s Cosmo.
Is there a meeting point? Is there a way to protect myself from further damage to my body images and self-esteem? And what about my own daughter someday? How do I convince her that she’s beautiful just as she is, when she has weight loss pills and diet tricks shown in commercials during her Disney shows?
I’m not sure what the answer is. I’m not sure how you to end this cycle of acceptance and yo yo dieting. I just know that it’s 10:19 at night, and I for one, am going to have some carbs.
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!
Posted by M on Jun 18, 2010 in
Deep Thoughts,
How to Be a Grown Up If I hadn’t already decided many moons ago that I simply was just not going to be a member of the Real World in 2011, my first day of work really did it for me.
The people were nice, the coffee was hot (oh, Coffee…Diet Coke…my belly misses you!), I had a pad of paper to doodle on. I was you know, doing okay. I was hanging in there. Until that coffee ran right through me and I had to go to the bathroom. And in the bathroom, I had to look at my face.
Fluorescent lighting must be the world’s most unflattering light. It’s the equivalent of walking into a doctor’s office to be weighed after grubbing out on an Old Country Buffet. I swear I aged 15 years between how I looked outside, under the natural, soft glare of the sun, and when I walked inside, under the harsh glare of Corporate America.
Have you ever heard of a Monet? And not the painting. A Monet is a person who from a distance, is extremely good looking, but within much smaller distances, are actually quite horrendous looking. Most people use this term to describe girls at the bar who wear too much make up. I, personally, use it to describe alcoholic beverages, such as tequila, which seems like a good idea from a distance, but never seems to be a good choice when it’s close up.
I digress. Fluorescent lighting in the workplace is a monstrosity. But my Company takes it to a whole new level. In the bathrooms, there’s an extra thin, long light that runs horizontonally over the top of the mirrors. Which means that when I go to wash my hands (eh, let’s be honest: rinse them off), I get an extra bright fluorescent light showing off every single flaw on my face. On my neck. On my clothes. Nothing is overlooked by The Fluorescent Lighting.
The perfectionist in me sickly enjoys such horrible lighting. If my mascara is the least big smudged or my hair is the least bit out of place or has any type of shampoo residue present, I can guaurentee The Fluorescent Lighting is totally going to rub it in my face–so I can fix it. But Friday afternoon, when I’m in my jeans and barely took the time to brush my teeth this morning, much less apply make up, is the last period of time I want to have a wrinkle check performed on me just because I have to pee.
I’m learning to avert my eyes when I enter the bathroom, but I have some other ideas up my sleeve for when the Fluorescent Lighting issue gets to be too much for me to handle. The first is that I just don’t drink liquids all day. I think this is totally not practical, especially with my bladder that’s smaller than Jim Joyce’s current fan club. But, if you ask my parents or check out any of the plans I’ve made over the years, you’ll see that I tend to irr on the side of impractical anyways. I also have considered getting my car and letting my BFF, Bonnie, suggest a nearby restaurant/chocolate emperiom to use the facilities at. I figure Fluorescent Lighting will be present there too, but at least after I look at myself in the mirror, I’ll be able to make myself feel much better or at least numb the pain by entering immediately into a chocolate coma.
At the end of the summer, I intend on applying for more schooling or for a grant from the Ann and Cliff Foundation to live in their basement like a bum. Neither of those two options require intense fluorescent lighting (although chances are, Cliff will now spend his father’s day weekend building the ultimate fluorescent lighting contraption to guarentee I never move home). If, by some miracle of miracles I’m given a job in a year or God Forbid, I someday have a career where Fluorescent Lighting is installed throughout my new stomping grounds, I’ll have to figure out a way to deal with that. On top of botox, a face lift, a laser hair remover, and a professional make up artest, I think I’ll also negotiate some soft lighting into my contract. I realize most people would probably go for extra vacation time, but I won’t need as many vacation days (i.e. recovery time from plastic surgury) if I just look extra good at work everyday.
Not to mention, looking extra good at work every day is key in my plan on eventually meeting a very rich, good looking guy with great genes who eventually breeds with me, and then encourages me to stay home with our four children and pursuit my lifelong (okay, very recent) dream of opening a cupcake shop.
A cupcake shop with plenty of natural lighting, that is.
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 Mar 9, 2010 in
Deep Thoughts My parents and I have a long standing deal. Essentially, it goes like this: if you want to escape Michigan weather for springbreak, you can come with us and we’ll pay for it. If you want to go with your friends, you’re on your own, sugartits. If you read this blog, you know I have a weird thing about money. I’m saving my nest egg for a rainy day or a Chinese orpahn or my first wedding. So, every year I go on Springbreak with Cliff.
Cliff is a professional springbreak attendee. He knows where the best places are, which way the sun will rise and cast its exact shadow onto a particular balcony which therefore determines if a particular room is worthy of our visit, where the best food is according to tripadvisor.com, and he knows what each kid likes to do, which allows him to cater the vacation to make it appealing. Examples? He knows that David and I can’t sit still for too long, so he took us to Costa Rica last year, where David could exercise his mind playing a game of “I Speak Spanish” with the natives and I could run on the beach everyday (because if I don’t run, I get really crabby really fast). He knows Jake prefers to sit on the beach and push back a drink, so last year he took Jake to Mexico, where he could be a legal drinker (so my parents are therefore not guilty of supplying a minor) and turn a nice shade of my favorite color, pink.
Since I’ve turned 18, I’ve always had friends asking me to go on Springbreak with them. The stereotypical SENIOR SPRINGBREAK trip to Panama was my first chance, but my liver is a last-place-in-the-minor-league-draft liver compared to my friends and to be completely honest, it wasn’t even a realistic option because my parents were much too strict to allow their daughter to driver to Florida with her friends for seven days of drunken debauchery while I was still in high school. A choice that made me pout for a few days in the twelfth grade, however, my own kids don’t have a shot in hell of going on Senior Springbreak. Yeah kids, if you ever read this: No. Effin. Way. I know what goes on there. Go study for your ACTs or something. Don’t even bother asking.
Back on topic though. So this year, my Mom got in on the action and the whole family (sans David) is doing some time in Coco Beach, Florida. Where the average resident is at least 65 and the business people target this key audience by only providing merchandise that an old person losing their vision would deem attractive. My other argument for them losing their vision is that I’ve walked with them on the beach and they must be nearly blind to believe that bikinis on the beach at 80 is a good thing. I mean, I’m 21 and I haven’t even rocked my bikini yet! There’s also a Coco Beach High School, which seems kind of a like a waste of resources. I mean, the only kids attending that school have got to be grandchildren sent to live with their grandparents for reasons like misbehaving. A Juvenile Detention Center would likely be an equal substitute.
Beyond that, we have the issue that Flood Family vacations are a little like Boot Camp. Let me give you a sample dialogue:
Ann: Maggie! It’s 8:15! Want to get up?
Maggie: NOOOOOOOOOO
Ann: Let’s go for a walk!
Maggie: NOOOOOOOOO
Ann: Are you sure?!
Maggie: STOP TALKING TO ME! I’LL NEVER FALL ASLEEP NOW!
Ann: Well, since you’re up, let’s go for a walk!
I love exercise. I really do. Mostly because I love eating and I depend on the notion that the more I work out, the more I can eat. But when Ann Flood says walk, watch out, because Ann Flood means WALK. I walked ten miles my first day here! The next day I only did six and I felt guilty! What kind of crock is this where I go on Springbreak and I feel guilty for “only” going six miles? My friends are drunk on a beach and I’m literally doing my first work out of the day while they’re just stumbling in from their night!
That said, Coco beach is wonderful because it’s quiet. It lets you think. It’s no shocker to anyone that I’m a little, um, blurry, on what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. As in, I have no clue and whoever told me that someday I would just “know” seriously owes me money or a strong drink, or at the very least a little direction because I’m completely lost. But, since I’ve been done here, I’ve remembered why I chose my major in the first place and what kind of a job I really, really wanted when I chose that particular major. But that’s another blog post, I suppose. I will say this, however: I have seen more couples in their eighties holding hands on this beach than I ever have in my entire life. I mean, that says something right? I have no idea what these people chose to do with their lives or if they were successful or if they made all the right choices at all the right times, but here, on the beach, they’re all equally wrinkly, dressed in bright, horrid outfits that I really thought society did away with prior to my birth in the 80s, and they all seem pretty happy.
So, I guess that will be my new goal: I want to be saggy and wrinkly and happily in love, strolling on a beach in Florida when I’m 85 and be happy because I’m with the person I adore. Please note that I left out the horrible clothes. I really hope even when I’m losing my memory I can tell that the shade of orange that burns your eyes when you look directly at it is not a shade that looks good on me.
Whenever Christmas time rolls around, I tend to take about fifteen minutes (this would be the amount of time it takes me to drive from East Lansing home to DeWitt, and today was Country Classics on the radio, so I had no music and therefore, thinking had no option but to commence) and think about the past year. This is not because it’s the end of a calendar year or the end of a semester, but mostly because Christmas means my birthday, which means one year older, which means when they someday write my autobiography, they’ll have a chapter on, “when Maggie was 20…” and I’d like to consider the highlights of that invigorating and must-read chapter.
The past year has been an adventure of ups and downs and bilateral movements. Of course, that goes for every year, but this past year has been especially different. I think that’s because sometime around January last year, I just stopped trying to make everyone else happy. Don’t get me wrong; I still can’t say no and I tend to spend an exorbitant amount of time cementing the happiness of others, but when it comes to my life decisions and what I want to do, I actually stopped caring how I would be judged. If you haven’t done this yet (and let’s be honest, I can’t let go completely and most of us can’t), I highly recommend you jump on this. I, the girl who still insists we have lifejackets on board just in case took a couple of risks.
What risks you say? Well, I learned how to cook. That’s a work in progress, but it’s a risk every night and so far, I think we can label it a success (the smoke detector has been going off less and less). I complimented the girl sitting next to me in class on her tote bag (a risk because I’m shy around people I don’t know)–and now she’s one of my best friends. I went on to MSU’s study abroad website and booked a trip to Italy, without a second thought as to what six weeks away meant or the little factoid being that I don’t speak Italian (and after a six week course, the only phrase I truly remember in Italian is a combination of swear words that are not appropriate for a blog my grandparents read–especially with Birthday Shopping upon us). I left my comfort zone. I made new friends. I left old friends. I combined groups. I did things that are immoral and sinful that we won’t go into and I did some exciting and incredible things that would make my parents proud of me (That Longchamp bag I e-mailed my mother about would be a good way to show this appreciation). Or at least had my dad stopped referring to me as his “alleged daughter” and pointing towards the mailman as my potential birth father.
In two weeks, I have, and of course this is not dramatic at all: the last good birthday of my life. After 21, there’s really nothing exciting except for botox appointments and parties with the theme “over the hill.” I’m kidding, of course, but there is this weird stigma about age in society. As a people, we set our goals in terms of our ages, right? As in, “I want to be married by 25.” “I want to be a CEO by the time I’m 30.” “I want to retire by 57.” These goals are set at milestones that we strive for, but as we get a year closer, it’s hard to be okay with the fact that time is actually passing. But, 20 was a super happy year. It was the best year. It only got better as every month went by. Sure, I’m having a minor case of selective memory, but overall, it was a success. It was better than 19. And 19 was better than 18. And 18, well it kicked 17’s ass. And thank God every year got better than Middle school because those awkward years were not friendly to my awkward self. But my point is, I’m finally catching onto this linear trend that as you get older, it gets better. So, 21, with it’s legal drinking age and even more intense responsibilities can come because hey, if 21 can beat 20, then I’ve got it really, really good. Someday I’ll have a husband (or a nice lap dog) and a bunch of kids and a house and a career that requires a cute pencil skirt everyday and all of these other big girl responsibilities–and those birthdays will have even more blessings than this one.
This entry’s been just all over the board, so I hope you managed to at least kind of get what I’m saying: I’m okay with growing up. It comes with a lot of heartbreaks and tears (just ask my mother, who gets to hear me crying about my B on an exam I studied for–while trying to hold back a smile that I’m so upset about an 85%) and really no certainties at all. But it’s exciting and I hope that when I’m cruising home from East Lansing next Christmas break (although Dear God, let it not be when it’s Country Classics day on the radio), I hope I’m lucky enough to have blessings to count, people to love, and of course, that Longchamp bag next to me.
