Getting Older In My Youth

I'm getting old. Older, as my friend Amy (who is older in years perhaps, but much younger at heart) likes to say. Really though, I feel old. It hits me when I'm yelling at a kid to do his homework (ah, the joys of tutoring lol)—1st because I think of him as a kid when really there's a maximum age difference of 5 years & 2nd because he'll call me "teacher" or "miss" or worst of all "ma'am". It hits me when I get out of bed & everything cracks & I worry about my knee going out again. & hits me when I'm chasing Harry.

Harry is the puppy I recently gave to my parents as an early anniversary gift. He's soon to be 3 months old & an adorable fluff ball. At 1st sight he seems harmless.

See? Harmless, probably think he's all mellow & obedient. 

Wrong. 

Harry is not a calm child. I swear he has ADD & he's faster than a jack rabbit. When I was pup-sitting this weekend, I had the bright idea of taking him into the backyard without a leash.

There is only 1 word that can adequately describe that decision. That word is idiotic.

It took 1/2 an hour to corral him, & that was only with Sunny (Harry's 5 year old big brother) helping me.

I repeat, I'm getting old.

I am ashamed to admit that by the time we got inside I was exhausted & collapsed on the couch.

& it wasn't even that I'm out of shape. I'm not an exercise nut by any stretch of the imagination, but I do get in my daily exercise. I'm not the healthiest of eaters, but I don't live off junk food. I should have been able to keep up with Harry. 5 years ago I was in the same shape & eating the same foods, & I could keep up with Sunny just fine. So what happened? When did 22 become old?

I don't know. I think perhaps stress is to blame. 5 years ago my greatest concern was some lameass test I studied for 5 minutes before class & somehow still managed to pass with flying colors. Now my life revolves around the grades of others, the constant struggle for peaceful coexistence with my roommate, a ton of family concerns, money, the future—you get my point. A day without stress is a day spent in bed in a near comatose state. & that, my friends, is not living.

So, recap. Life=Stress Stress=Old Old=Old. & let's face it, I'm too young to be old (plenty of time for that later). 

What then is the solution? 

Maybe it's getting in shape, eating better, being healthier, all that crap. But let's face it, I probably don't have time for that crap. So then maybe it's acceptance only wait, I'm about the most self-accepting 22 female there is. I mean c'mon people, I don't usually wear make-up & I totally rock the jeans & t-shirt "I don't give 2 shits" look. Clearly I am not trying to be something I'm not.

Maybe my pal Amy's onto something. She's older, not old, & totally makes that work. She's living the 20-something year old dream with the responsabilities of a family woman in her 40s. So maybe I'm not like most 20 year olds. I'm a planner, an over-thinker, goal-oriented to the max. I'm married to my job & completely dedicated to building my writing career, & honestly neither binge drinking nor a starting a serious relationship sound like things I want to do. When I drink I drink responsibly, & dating is just way too much of a distraction from my big picture right now. I have responsibilities, I have plans, & that's my focus.

I'm 22, but I'm not your average 22.

I'm okay with that. But more importantly I'm learning to understand that while that may make me feel old, it doesn't mean I have to be old.

~AC 

(A Little) on Family

There is no denying I am my father's child. I see myself in the mirror, & I see him. His blue eyes, the same crinkles around my eyes as his. I see the same Zeimetz features my Minnesotan relatives share: ruddy skin like my grandfather, a stockier build like Grandma had. I am sturdy German stock through & through. But when I look in the mirror, Of one thing I am even more sure:

I am the spitting image of my mother. 

I have her temper,  my mamaw's smile, her penchant for rescuing animals. Though I don't remember her quite as bubbly or optimistic as me, we are good with people. She is like a summer storm, constantly changing as the wind goes. She can be happy one moment, angry the next. She isn't one to show emotions, & yet, she does. My father, my middle sister--they are like the pine trees, roots deeply set, they stand firm, never changing. They are quiet, speaking little but with deep thoughts. 

My mother is not quiet. I am not quiet. We are willow trees, shifting in the breeze. We shed our leaves like our souls laid bare.  I am independent like her. stubborn too, unwilling to accept help even when I need it simply because 'I can do it myself.'

Sometimes it gets me in trouble. Sometimes it helps me survive. 

Of one thing I know for sure: I do not regret one single quality we share. It's made me who I am. 

~LB

Sitting on a Graveyard Shelf

I have an addiction to Pinterest.  There, I've said it.  Honestly, anyone who knows me, knows this.  When I say I'm tired and going to bed, it possibly means I'm tired, and yes, I'll be in bed, but I'll also be looking up a thousand and one images for my fantasy wedding that's nowhere near soon.  Or looking up recipes for 'healthy meals' that--no offense, healthy eaters--I just don't have time for.  Trust me, the next day, I'll still be mowing down on a breakfast of coffee and cookies with cheese puffs as my mid-morning snack.  So sue me; I haven't keeled over from them yet.   

 

But anyway, back to Pinterest.  If you're not on, you should be. (Yes, that means you AC).  It's a great place--so many nifty things!  Plus, you can learn a lot about a person from their Pinterest boards.  Alas, that's not actually the reason I'm writing this post. Actually, my post has to do 

with something a lot of people tend to avoid. 

 

Cemeteries. 

My Great-aunt Dina & Uncle Henry, Buckman, MN

 

Proper topic, considering we're finally into October and it's coming up to Halloween and all that jazz.  Now, most people, like the boyfriend for example, don't have a fondness for graveyards.  

Something about being creepy or something like that.  Not this girl--I love them.  Granted, there are still a few of them you won't catch me in at night, or give me the heebie jeebies as I drive 

past them, but as a rule, I find them fascinating.  Seeing the names and the dates--it creates so many questions for me.  Who was she?  How did she die?  The young ones especially--they 

break my heart.   

 

Just this Sunday my cousin's wife and I took a drive to Buckman, MN to visit the graves of my grandmother's parents, and a few of her sisters.  Steph and myself, along with her three children, made the rounds.  It's been on my list to do since I moved to MN--to visit the graves--and now I can mark it off the list.  I can also make the circuits for memorial day, like I did back home with 

Mom and Amz.   

 

I guess I've always been fascinated by cemeteries--one of my favorite poems growing up was Robert Frost's "In a Disused Graveyard".  If you haven't read it, please do.  More so lately, there's a beautiful song by Sara Bareilles that uses fantastic graveyard imagery.  It's called 

"Chasing the Sun" and it's phenomenal.  My favorite part of the song, in particular, goes, 

 

It's a really old city stuck between the dead and the living 

so I thought to myself sitting on a graveyard shelf 

and the gift of my heartbeat sounds like a symphony 

played by a cemetery in the center of Queens 

 

I love it.  I just envision this silent,overcast afternoon, and the only sound in the singer's ears is her own heartbeat, sounding like drums, surrounded by the dead.  How utterly alone would you 

feel?  But yet, how...not.  Though they may be dead, there may be no physical representation around, you're not alone.  And in New York City, a place filled with so much history, good and bad, equally tragic and wonderful, to be surrounded by all those people, dead or alive--it's hard to comprehend.  It's mind-boggling to a point, and I love it. 

 

See, my theory is, the dead never truly leave us.  Granted, we may feel alone, but they're always there.  More so what I take away from the song (and you will too if you listen to it) is that you have to embrace life.  Like the phrase, "the gift of my heartbeat".  Life--it's a gift!  And what's the best way to thank a person for a gift?  By using it!  By living everyday to the fullest, by making mistakes and taking chances and screwing up--because you probably will--but learning 

from it!   

 

Two days ago marked the one year anniversary of my Godfather's death.  Uncle Charlie was younger than Daddy when he died, and it's been hell on his kids.  His wife passed away the year 

previous, and as you can imagine, it's been difficult.  I get that--I can't possibly imagine losing both my parents within such short space of a time.  The thing that gets me is how they don't take 

the time to move on from it.  I'm not saying the pain will go away, and I'm not saying it's going to be any easier, but look at it this way--they lasted as long as they did.  They lived, they loved, God saw it was their time, and now we're left to carry on.  And sure, those left here can get stuck in the past, refuse to change things (regardless of whether they need changing or not) because 'that's the way it's always been done'.

 No! 

 

For the love of yourself, make a change.  Put the dishes in a different spot, get rid of those old coffee cups that nobody uses anymore.  I get keeping mementos, but making a shrine won't bring  somebody back.  The best way, in my eyes, to honor their memory, is to live your life to the fullest, to take each day as a new adventure, to use each skill and lesson your loved ones' taught you to make this world a better place for the future. 

 

...whoops, I spiraled a lil' bit, didn't I? Not that I've been building that up for awhile.   

 

I digress.  I'm not saying you should get rid of everything.  I carry an old black and white photograph of my grandpa in my wallet.  Steph and Karl were kind enough to give me Grandma's crafting supplies, because they knew I'd appreciate and use them.  I have a cute little red-stone cat brooch Aunt Evelyn gave me before she passed away.  Little mementos--I 

understand.  They help us to know: the dead are always with you.  Though it may feel as though they're gone, they're always looking out for us.  At least, that's what I like to think. 

 

Can you guys see why I love cemeteries so much now?  Well, I suppose it's the dead in general.  Hope this doesn't make you too worried for the ghosties to come out this Halloween! 

 

Remember, as Daddy always told me, "The dead can't hurt you." 

 

~LB 

Let's Talk About Bras

I know what you're thinking (or what I think you're likely thinking at any rate)—why do we need to talk about bras? Well, it's quite simple really. I don't see the appeal. I mean I value them for giving my boobs much needed support, but I really don't care what they look like as long as they get the job done. Especially if no 1 but me is going to see them.

That being said, I saw a slideshow sometime last week of these truly novel bras that I think are worth discussing.

Let's start with some basic assumptions. 1st, I assume more than the woman wearing the bra will see it. My guess is these bras are as much if not more for the pleasure of the wearer's significant other than for the pleasure of the wearer. 2nd, these were all labeled as bras, so unlike bikini tops I'm going to assume at some point the wearer is planning on putting some sort of blouse or top over these bras. 3rd, as bras, I assume that while these are meant to be eye-catching & visually appealing, their primary function remains to hold up the wearer's boobs. All that being said, let's start with the simplest of these novelty bras:

This is going to sound like a joke (honestly it is 1), but I like this bra. It's funny & original, yet I can still see myself wearing it comfortably under just about any basic top & having my boobs satisfactorily supported. Thumbs up for this bra.

Next up, the classic Nintendo remote controller bra. Nerdy, potentially kinky with the right couple (notice the placement of the control pad), yet still maintains basic functionality. I could wear this under any top (as long as it's not semi-transparent—awkward) & it would hold my boobs up. A potential video game-loving boyfriend would likely approve.

Continuing with the video game theme, this bra draws on a trope item & character from the Mario Bros. games. On the left, a red mushroom, which usually restores health (or height) to the protagonist (i.e. Mario, Luigi etc.). On the right, Goomba, a little villainous nuisance most players defeat with ease, using a weapon, jumping on his head, etc. Now here's my issue with this bra—1 boob is cast as good, 1 boob is cast as bad. That's weird right? I mean Goomba has teeth...makes me think that boob's off-limits. Mushroom boob though, go for it potential boyfriend. It's bound to give you health & make you grow. Seriously, let's think about this. Plus both your boobs now have eyes. Creepy. Props for continued functionality though; this too is a bra I could wear under most tops & that would hold up my boobs. I just don't see the sex appeal of it.

So this could totally work for folks with out of this world fantasies...or who think of boobs & those with them as a toy. No judgment (well maybe a little) but my main beef with this bra is that it looks better suited as part of a grown-up Halloween costume. I mean I'd honestly never wear this under my regular clothes without feeling weird. It's like a Superman costume—I'd be half-tempted all day to rip my shirt open & try to fly. Still, I suppose if you didn't have such temptations, it might work. The skin tone straps, the boob support...I guess I could wear it. I'm just pretty sure I'd not want to wear anything over it. Making it awkward for everyday wear.

Okay, see I love art. & I love this painting. But Starry Night on my boobs? No thanks. For 1 thing, it seems like a waste of the painting. There, I said it. My boobs are not worthy of Van Gogh's masterpiece. I don't think any boobs are worthy. It you want a painting on your boobs, invest in some body paints. Give in fully to your kinkiness. But don't drag the greats into your mess. Could this bra theoretically hold my boobs up? Sure. Would I really want to wear it under a T-shirt? No. As previously stated, I'd feel weird. & therefore uncomfortable. Sorry boss, I need to go home early. My bra is causing Van Gogh to turn repeatedly in his grave. Thanks for understanding.

& this is the point in the slideshow where physical comfort comes into play. Tell me honestly those yellow ruffles look comfortable. Go on. Anybody? Yeah, I don't think so. If I wore this bra to work I just know I'd end up locked in a bathroom stall with a pair of scissors, topless & cutting those ungodly ruffles off. That minor detail aside, let's take a moment to discuss the imagery of this bra. Now I like superheroes as much as the next person, & I can see a couple bonding over their love of Marvel's finest. But the strategically placed hand reaching out on the left? (Possibly Thor's?) Um, creepy. I don't think any potential boyfriend of mine would want to mess with that. & on the right you've got Captain America & Spiderman among others glaring at you. Or rather, glaring at your significant other as he or she tries to get some action. Buzzkill much? You mess with these boobs, & the Avengers are going to kick your ass. Oh yeah, total turn-on. Your boobs are more than supported—they're super supported.

I'm going to tell it to you straight—this bra scares me. Let's go back to the 3 assumptions I made at the beginning of this post, shall we? Number 1, more than the wearer will see this bra. I'd say there's no way to avoid that—wear this & everyone within a mile radius will see it. Question is, will your partner really find this to be a turn-on? Now I'll admit, my boobs are relatively large, but I don't think a potential boyfriend would be able to find them under this...wonderland. Honestly, I love the book & the movies, but I do not think this is what Lewis Carroll had in mind. Number 2, at some point the wearer is planning on wearing other clothes over this bra. Give me a minute. I may have just punctured a lung from laughing. You could wear a parka over this bra & I still don't think it would adequately cover it up. Either the Mad Hatter's hat would slip out between the buttons or the Cheshire Cat would poke out over the fringe. (How creepy is he by the way? Cat lover or hater, I don't think anyone wants Chesh staring at her chest.) Number 3, this bra's primary function is to provide boob support. Right, if you can even manage to get this thing on, & not have an allergic reaction to any of the about 20 materials in use, & not rip it off after 2 seconds of the red & white whatever that is scratching against your skin, do you honestly think your boobs will be adequately supported? I don't. At all. Which is why you could not pay me enough to try that thing on, let alone wear it. In the case of this bra, curiouser & curiouser is such an understatement. More like crazier & crazier.

To wrap this all up, I'm all for creativity. I'm a creative person by trade, & I applaud the ingenuity of the designers of these bras. That being said, there are some things I just don't mess with & bras are 1 of those things. Give me a nice & simple functional bra any day. Sufficient boob support, something I can wear comfortably under any top & not have to think about or mess with for the rest of the day—that's what I want. Fashion & creativity be damned.

~AC

Dear LB (2)

Dear LB,

My job, which you know I love, requires me to deal with all sorts of people. Most of these people are very nice (at least to me), some of them annoying, but 1 in particular makes me want to explode. Without naming any names, let's just say she's older & therefore has been working a lot longer than I have, & thinks she therefore knows better than anyone. This woman, who I am required to work in tandem with to tutor a student, talked down to me like I had never written a paper in my life.

LB, with all due respect to this woman's experience, I know what the hell I'm doing. I know how to write & I know how to tutor. So here's my question: how do I get her to back off without blowing my top? I'd rather not taint my reputation at work by exploding, but if this woman continues to talk to me or to the students we tutor like we're 5 & lack a basic understanding of English, I am going to blow a fuse.

Sincerely,

English-Proficient 

Dear English-Proficient,

Here's the thing, from the sound of it, this woman sounds like the type to think she knows a lot, while truly knowing very little. I suppose taking calming breaths doesn't help? Perhaps you could talk down to her, to see if that does anything? I give you kudos for not killing this woman already. 

Honestly your best bet would be avoiding this woman as much as you can. If you must suffer her company, two options: kill her with kindness, or impress her with knowledge. Both will annoy her endlessly, & that means my job is done. 

Best regards,

LB

Let's Talk Laundry

Okay, now I've been doing my own laundry since my early teens, mostly because my mom got too frustrated by my sorting system (hint: I don't have 1). That's cool. Throw a load in the washer, pray it doesn't come out pink, switch it to the dryer, pray it doesn't come out covered in kleenex fluff, dump into the laundry basket & promptly forget to fold it. Easy enough. But all through college I diligently avoided wasting my precious pocket money on washing in the dorms, so I washed at home. Or in my friends' apartment. Or anywhere where it was free really.

Well no more. Due to a series of events beyond my control, I returned to my apartment last week with virtually no clean clothes & no time to wash. It got ugly quick. Recycling jeans, okay. Pajamas, eh, what's a few extra days? T-shirts, well, I guess I'll be a bit more formal for a few days. But socks—that's where I draw the line. 

Come Wednesday, & I'm down to my last pair. I'm lacking quarters, & time, & energy. So what do I do? I wash them in the sink.

Have you ever washed socks in the sink? Let's just say a little soap goes a long way. Buy that's besides the point. It's not the washing that you have to worry about—it's the drying.

Naive fool that I am, I thought they'd dry by the time I needed them the next day. Wrong. I spent Thursday afternoon walking in soggy socks until they dried on my feet. So when I got home Thursday night, I needed a new plan of attack. I washed another pair of socks, wrung them out in the sink, & went to bed. As expected, they were still pretty soaked in the morning. So I got creative.

My first thought was to blow-dry them, but alas I couldn't remember where I'd put my hair dryer (turns out it was under the sink). Beating them dry didn't seem to work, so I got desperate. I microwaved them.

That's right—I microwaved my socks. Don't judge.

You will probably not be surprised to hear this did not work. However my socks did steam a little, & were soggy yet warm. & possibly radioactive. We're going to call this an improvement. 

After work on Friday, I finally had time to do laundry. Except surprise! I never got a key for the laundry room. & my roommate's key didn't work. So Saturday I went sockless to the leasing office & got keys.

Think that's the end of the story? It probably be, except this is me, & even the most trivial of problems with me are never quite so straight-forward.

Sunday: the day of rest, of relaxation, God's day. The day I was finally able to do my laundry. Hint: it did not end well.

For starters, there was only 1 washing machine in working order. Timing it right so I got to use it was tricky. But not so bad. Armed with $4 in quarters (thanks Dad), I had enough for 2 washer loads & 2 dryer loads. Perfect right? So there I go, load up the 1st washer with the essentials: socks, underwear, bras, pjs, a few pairs of jeans, a couple t-shirts. I know what you're thinking, & yes, it was a pretty full load. But manageable. Got it going without trouble, fast-forward an hour & fifteen, & I return with my 2nd load consisting mainly of towels (from the flooded kitchen incident—whole other debacle). Load the dryer, load the washer, & I'm feeling pretty good about myself. It's not until I come back another hour fifteen later that things get complicated.

Honestly, I think I forgot to turn the dryer on. That, or it was so full it didn't dry at all. The jeans, the t-shirts, the undergarments—all soaked. Really, really soaked. & I've only got enough quarters left for 1 more dryer.

I prioritized. Dryed a couple pairs of socks, 2 bras, 2 underwears & my pjs. Everything else went in the basket & up to my room. I won't bore you with the details of what I did next. Instead I'll jist show you:

My room, ladies & gents. Decked out in detergent-smelling clothes & towels. I call it laundry chic. I'm pretty sure I accidentally drugged myself with the laundry smell, because I totally took a 3 hour nap once it was all said & hung.

& sadly, this is still not the end of the story. My debacle more or less over, do you know what I discovered when I walked past my roommate's room a couple of days later?

Was she mocking me or creepishly emulating me?

You decide. 

~AC