Me Too, You

My mom doesn't get nearly enough credit. I have all these amusing stories about growing up with an analytical father. I go over memories of him using logic to talk me down from an emotional height, or pushing me when I wasn't quite ready for it, because I'm just now beginning to understand what he was doing. I don't offer many of my mother, because those memories are different.

In my mind, my mother's parenting doesn't take the shape of amusing stories, or particular episodes characterized by meaningful lessons. They come to me in combined experiences accompanied by general sentiments.

When I think of her, I'm a little girl, with wet hair, sitting in the kitchen while she combs out my tangles before school. I'm doing my homework with a hand on my shoulder. I'm in the passenger seat singing oldies at the top of my lungs. I'm stomping out of the car after waking up early, and she's following me with a soft voice explaining that it won't seem so bad after I've eaten.

When I think of her, she's brushing bangs out of my eyes. She's waiting for me to let go of that long hug. She's letting me ramble on about meaningless adolescent drama, and pretending it's as important as it feels to me. She's asking, "have I told you yet today?" And when I'm answering before she can, she's responding with a serene "me too, you."

I think about all the times I wrapped my arms around her, and buried my face in her stomach, and then eventually her shoulder. I remember fingers in my hair as I dozed off, my head safely in her lap. I recall appreciative smiles as I debuted every possible combination of my back-to-school wardrobe. But mostly, I just remember her being there.

I don't have to recount stories of specific experiences I had with her, because I understood her motives. The truth is, I always knew what my mother was doing. She was taking care of me and loving me in a way that only the best moms can.

Waste of Space

Could someone please explain to me why a dog needs a facebook page? I mean sure, maybe it's nice to have one location to post all your Fido pictures. I get that, but the rest of it? No thank you. Whoever runs that garbage is wasting their time posting status updates on behalf of their tail-chasing best friend.

Why are people amused by this? It's not funny. Chester didn't actually say those things. Sure, he made a silly face when he looked at the cat, or the doorbell got him in a frenzied barking kind of mood, but those words on "his" facebook are a person's thoughts. Why couldn't they post that as their own status? Is it really necessary to make an entirely separate profile for the hypothetical ruminations of a canine? Is anyone buying this? I just don't get it, but obviously it's working for someone. If you understand, could you explain it to me?

Also, what is the deal with couples sharing a profile? Talk about codependency. Can you not trust your partner with a social network of their own? *Please imagine the following quote in either a breathy airhead voice or the deep tones of a droll moron.*

"But now we have full disclosure in everything we do!" 

Blah blah blah barf. Because facebook is your whole existence? Nothing could possibly go on behind your back in the real world, or on a dating site, or *gasp* on your dog's profile.

"On second thought, it did seem weird that Buster was friends with so many floozies and gym rats right?"

I can't figure out what is more sad, your oblivious outlook, or your inability to loosen that leash a little. I give it five years. — Just wait, you'll see what I mean.

And another thing, a baby doesn't need its own facebook page either. The same goes for twitter accounts and tumblr (I'm looking at you Blue Ivy Carter). It's a damn baby! She can't even hold her head up, and the only thing that makes her smile right now is a particularly good gas passing. The pictures are great, and I can understand wanting to get the kid all set up so, when she's ready, her timeline is lifespan comprehensive, but this just seems like the modern day version of the ear piercing debate.

Chill out. Give the kid a chance to develop some autonomy. Then let her decide for herself what embarrassing images to throw out there. In the meantime maybe you could, you know, actually interact with your child. Just a thought.

I guess I could probably go on and on about my issues with cyber social networking, and I probably will at some point. However, for now this seems like a good place to end my pointless rant.

Sunrise, Sunset

Sometimes when I lie in bed at night I close my eyes and make believe I'm in my old room.

I pretend that I am a little girl at home and everything else has been a dream. The train in the distance sounds the same as it did back then. The approaching whistle blows as it pulls into town; enveloping me in a tranquility that makes the rest easy to imagine.

The thud from above is not my upstairs neighbor moving around. It's my brother shifting in bed one room over. The door slamming just below, on the second floor, is actually my dad taking out the trash. The footsteps in the hall don't belong to visiting strangers. They are my mom's as she comes to announce lights out.

When I wake up, the train is gone. I keep my eyes closed and savor the silence. That's when I slowly begin to realize that my neighbors aren't actually taking a break from their raucous morning lawn mowing, because my next door neighbors don't have a lawn anymore. Then I open my eyes and survey my reality.

Somewhere between watching the night sky, and hiding from the morning light the windows changed, and I grew up.

Change Is Hard

Something really dumb is happening. My mom is having her kitchen redone. It's an overhaul. New countertops, new sink, and even a new stove. This is not dumb, but how much I hate it is. I know I'm entitled to my own opinions, but this is different. My aversion is not the type to be expected.

It just doesn't match. Maybe the counters don't match the cabinets, or maybe the stove doesn't mesh with the tiles. I don't really know about all that, but I do know that it doesn't match my memories.

These new countertops aren't the ones I spilled cinnamon on while making elephant ears. They aren't the counters I put my dirty feet all over while trying to get a mixing bowl off the top shelf. They have not presented my family and I with countless holiday buffets. They just don't fit the image in my mind.

The sink is different too. It's not the one I peeled potatoes in while my mom made shepherd's pie. It's not the sink that filled with dishes as I stubbornly avoided my chores. It's not the sink I strained boiling water into while preparing top ramen after school. It's not the same.

Now the oven is different. The chip in the corner of the stove-top is gone. This oven has never made my mom's sugar cookies. I've never baked post-race fries in it. That stove doesn't have burnt noodles trapped under the element. It doesn't remind me of the time I accidentally melted the handle of our best spatula. I can't imagine all the chicken nuggets I made on its racks. It doesn't match my memories.

It's just not the same.

Listening to the Music

Sometimes I joke that my iPod is prophetic. It seems to just get me. This is remarkable because I generally leave it on the main library and have it shuffle through songs. I don't interact with it much more than to press play and pause, but for whatever reason, it seems to go through themes that resonate with my mood. Say what you will about projection. I'm going to stick with my theory. It's more fun.

With my main iPod out of commission I've had to listen to the radio more. This process involves scanning between certain stations. I listen to the music regardless of what it is. When I hear talking I move on. I generally don't select out for songs I find distasteful. Despite this mostly random procedure, I'm beginning to notice that my radio also seems to be picking up on my mood and reflecting it back. (Yes I know what projecting is. Now stop harping on it, and use your imagination with me).

I'm starting to feel that, on some cosmic level, a message is being communicated to me through random music sources. For instance last Thursday, on my drive home from class, the first station played Somebody That I Used To Know. I rocked out in my proper style. When it was over a commercial forced me to change stations. I was pleasantly surprised to hear I Got You Babe playing on the next one. It was an unexpected experience amplified by the sense of calm that came over me. My message was immediately clear:

You're on the right track.

For obvious reasons, both songs made me think of my love life. Specifically, I thought of my recent decision to take a dating hiatus. This may seem like peculiar timing given the upcoming romantic holiday. Who knows? Maybe I'll give up. I do waver occasionally, but mostly I'm pretty good with it. After all, I just don't have the energy to put into it right now

So much of my world is caught up in self-awareness and analysis, and now more so than ever. School has me focusing on my social interactions, refining my methods of communicating, and developing my professional persona. In the meantime it's all I can do to hang on to myself. Don't worry, I'm okay with it. It's a necessary step, and I acknowledge that. However, it means that I have countless roles and versions of myself to maintain. This just seems like too many Mindys. Plus they all require upkeep or personal growth. It's a lot of work, and it's a lot of feeling discouraged by my incremental improvements. It's overwhelming, and coping with it is difficult. All I can think to do is put one of me on the back burner for a while. Dating Mindy made the most sense.

I'm not really getting anywhere in the dating realm anyhow. This lack of progress can be rather defeating. It's difficult to focus my energy on putting the most attractive version of myself out there only to have it fall flat. It's so easy to interpret that as feeling like I'm not worthy or appealing, and I know this isn't true. That's why I've decided to stop doing it for now. If someone comes along to pursue me that's fine. I'll be receptive to it. However, I'm not going to try anymore. Right now I'm going to work on me.

After all, the radio has a point: For the time being, that guy I had been searching for is a thing of the past. He's somebody I used to know. What matters now is that I've got me, babe.