Hair

Hair. It's a thing. It's often a big thing. Politics of hair for many communities. Personal feelings for many people.

I've had my own long, winding, personal politics of hair.

My dad has been almost bald on top since he was in high school. I've never known my dad to have a full head of hair. Here's a picture of us from when I was probably 2. See that head? Not much hair.

My mom has alopecia. Her hair on her head has taken many forms throughout my life and she's managed/dealt/coped with it in many ways. When I was little she often wore wigs. No pictures of her to show -- her pictures are hers to share. My dad has always worn his bald head without fanfare; typical for males. Women and their hair are a much more tender subject.

It seemed very normal to me -- and as a child with two parents with little hair on their heads I just thought it was a natural state of being. My mom tells a story of how once when I was little I asked her when my hair would all fall out. After recovering from the shock of the question she assured me that my hair wasn't going to fall out (probably -- since we don't really know what causes alopecia) and not to worry.

I was also the first born in our family. And I think, as is fairly typical in American families, I was the pretty little baby doll. Now my parents are not inherently gendered in sort of stereotypical ways and are both super open to all forms of expression, but they both come from pretty traditionally gender roled families and they were born in a time where questioning gender roles was just beginning. So like a lot of young parents I was their first experiment in parenting, as well I was the first granddaughter on my dad's side and the 4th granddaughter on my mom's side (no boys!). High femme presentation just seemed to be a pretty natural conclusion. This was aided in the fact that I'm naturally a high femme kind of girl. I loved every sequined, glittery piece of clothing I could put on, loved dolls, loved sitting still and having my hair done, loved posing, etc. So there was definitely no pushback from me. See example A.

Now when my sisters came along, not only did my parents have more experience under their belt, they also had two and then three kids and well, easy maintenance was more important than dressing up three dolls. Plus, neither of my sisters were super feminine as kids. They both were more up the middle, equally likely to like "boy things" as "girl things" so neither of them would play along with feminine gender stereotypes.

When both of my sisters were little they had very short hair. Mybe, partially their idea? But mostly my parents. Just so much easier to deal with short hair.

Due in part to our different experiences with hairstyles, while I have had tons of different hairstyles (some ill advised) both of my sisters have basically had long hair (no shorter than shoulder length) for all of their teenage and adult years. Now, I can't say that all of this is a true statement of fact. I'm talking about 4 other people's lives in this post, and really I can only speak for mine. They might tell a different story of their relationships to hair. But this is how I've thought about and experienced it.

Unlike the rest of my family, however, I'm the queen dynamic hair. I try new things, dye my hair new colors, buy zillions of new hair accoutrements, and passionately engage in political discussions about hair.

Which now brings me back to my personal history of hair.

I hate hair.

I hate my personal body hair.

I hate the way my personal hair feels on all of the parts of my body.

I hate the way I can feel beads of sweat cling to my hair on all of the parts of my body.

I hate the dirty feeling I associate with hair, especially as I have sweaty clingy hair sensations on all parts of my body.

Ugh.

This is where my OCD and my history with hair intersect. 

I am not a very hairy person. In fact, I'm really, really lightly haired. Like a Chinese Crested dog really. My body hair is extremely light both in volume and in color. But I can feel it. One of the things I've discovered about being an Extra Sensitive Person who has OCD and zillions of little things cause anxiety is that my nerves and body feelers are way more sensitive than anyone else's for the most part. Everything is overwhelming to me from a tactile, body experience sort of way.

I've gotten used to the feeling on my hair for the most part, but when I was a teenager going through puberty? Oh. My. God. Kill me. The hair was so uncomfortable. I know this sounds completely bonkers to most people -- who can feel their individual hairs on their body? Believe me or don't, but my sensory receptors are so hella elevated that I can. Throughout high school I shaved every inch of my body. Not just my legs like all the rest of the girls. Not just my armpits. All. Of. My. Body. Hair. I gave myself Brazilians before that was all the rage. I shaved my arms from shoulders to fingers. I obsessively got rid of my body hair. It was the worst feeling ever. And this was just around the time that my OCD was ramping up for a full showing and my struggles with OCD were huge, but yet I had no words or experiences to describe it, so I just thought I was a total weirdo. I fantasized about shaving off my eyebrows -- my boyfriend in high school told me he'd dump me if I did that. I dreamed about getting cancer so I'd lose all my hair. Serious, serious obsession. And really, you can't tell people you prayed for cancer so your hair would fall out because what the ever-loving fuck? And especially knowing that my mom had struggled with her hair loss throughout her life, I felt like a total fucking asshole for wishing I had no hair, when she would love to have my hair. Struggles.

I often wouldn't let people touch me (which I still do to this day for many other reasons) because if they touched my arms they could tell I had shaved arms and then it would be a DEAL and I'd have to talk about WHY I had shaved arms. Luckily I was also on the swim team for a while so that was a convenient excuse. I also was able to pull off the "someone dared me to" every once in a while. And luckily Indiana is freezing half the year so I could wear long sleeves during the cold months.

It eventually got to the point that I couldn't stand talking about my lack of arm hair so I just let it grow back rather than suffering through more unbearable conversations. But the rest of my body remained clean shaven. I shaved every single day without fail. No hair growing on me! I eventually got used to the feeling of hair on my arms and it was tolerable, even if it wasn't desirable.

Fast forward a decade and I'm all hella gay, radical feminist and surrounded by people who don't believe women should have to shave. And not only shouldn't HAVE to, but also that shaving was a form of being brainwashed by the patriarchy. Gah. Why am I always surrounded by people who question my hair choices?!?!

Now, I must interject -- although I had a problem with MY hair, I didn't have any problem with anyone else's hair. I could care less what other people do with their hair, body or otherwise. Even if I were sleeping with them, I didn't give one crap about their hair. Their hair is theirs and my hair is mine. And I just would rather not have mine.

Over the past few years as I've been working on me and my identity and my OCD I've come to a bit more of a place of peace with my hair. I still sometimes fantasize about waking up like a hairless chinchilla, but I've grown accustomed to my body hair for the most part. I am no longer a daily religious shaver. I no longer go full Brazilian. Last November I participated in my own version of No Shave November and didn't shave my legs for 6 weeks. Then I got grossed out one day and shaved them clean again. But for the most part, I don't think too much about my hair. I probably think about my body hair more than most people times about 10, but for me, that's hardly at all! I'm sure hair will be a life long struggle, but at least I'm at a place in my life where I'm more equipped to deal with my hair and my OCD than ever before.

Crow Mother

You know that question "If your house was burning down and you could only grab three things to save, what would they be?" I've never had a good answer to that question. I am very much a non-materialistic person. I don't care so much about stuff. I usually say my computer, because getting a new computer and setting it up is annoying. But all my important docs are saved to cloud servers so it wouldn't be all that tragic to lose my computer. I just didn't really have much of value that couldn't be replaced.

I now have a different answer. I would absolutely save my Crow Mother Kachina.

Kachinas are Native American dolls that have a lot of meanings. While those meaning are important, the meaning of my kachina is more important.

My Grandma Gatlin collected, sold and knew vast amounts of information about Native American art. I learned much more about my Native American roots from her (who was not Native American) than from my grandfather (who was). When I think about and remember my grandma one of the more prominent things is thinking about her vast collection (on the positive side). From the time I was itty bitty and can remember my first memories I associated her with Native American art, and specially kachinas.

Crow Mother was always my favorite kachina. I would stare at her on the shelf and sometimes my grandma would let me take her down and look at her. I loved all her kachinas but something in particular about Crow Mother spoke to me. Maybe it was my young feminist side who loved her power and respect as one of the highest female kachinas. Maybe it was her gentle look, although her role is not so gentle. But for whatever reason, I loved her. And my grandma always said that when she died I could have her.

Fast forward 30-ish years. My grandma died. The events and family web of complications around her death were messy and somewhat strained. I gave up hope that Crow Mother would make her way to me. I made peace with that.

Fast forward to 6 months after she died, and I was home in Indiana for Christmas. I was downstairs and went to the bathroom in my mom and stepdad's room. I walked in the room and there she was. It very literally took my breath away. There were some other things sitting in the window ledge with her, but all I could stare at was her. I couldn't believe it.

Not one to be able to hide my emotions or keep secrets, I ran upstairs and asked my stepdad about it. He was like "Oh, that was supposed to be a surprise." Later that night when my mom was back at the house she brought all of the treasures upstairs. My sisters didn't have as close of a relationship with her as I did, so my mom picked out some nice pots for them and they seemed happy with them. But she remembered that Crow Mother was what I'd always had my heart set on. I was overjoyed and overcome with emotion. She had also brought three ceraminc dolls with her, since we are three sisters. I chose the one that had the sun god painted on it. I didn't have any real attachment to the dolls, but since that doll had a painting of another of my favorite kachinas on it, that held some meaning.

Crow Mother has some broken parts that have been re-glued and fixed. I don't care. Her value is not in her quality and pristine appearance. Her value is much more deep and meaningful. She symbolizes some of the good things about my grandma and some of the happy memories I have of her. In some ways, the fact that she's a little banged up is even sweeter. My grandma was a clumsy clod of a person. I share that with her. We tried to be careful but our bodies always betray us. Crow Mother has been moved from several houses, has probably been dropped a zillion times, but her worth is more than her bumps and bruises. She's beautiful and has survived. Much like my grandma, and much like me. Crow Mother is my prized material possession. I'd save her in a second.

A Tale of Two Grannies

Last year, I lost both of my grandmas in a span of 3 months. In some ways it was bittersweet, but in some ways it presented me with some serious moments of reflection and grief. 

Janet "Alice" Gatlin
April 4, 1931 - July 12, 2014

My mom's mother, Grandma Gatlin as we called her, died in July. It wasn't a surprise. She had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer in January. She smoked off and on (mostly on) for 60+ years of her life. She had been having some additional health issues in late fall of 2013. When she was finally diagnosed it wasn't a huge shock. She had a reasonably good attitude about it. When we talked after her diagnosis she said felt like a) duh, she had lung cancer, she smoked her whole life so what did she expect?!?! and b) that she had lived a long, plentiful life. She didn't feel like she was being ripped off or losing so many years of her life in some grand tragedy. She was as at peace as you could be with impending death.

I made it out to visit her in late June. By this point she was in hospice care and my uncle Matt had come to stay with her for the end. In many ways I felt guilty for not visiting her before this point. But in many ways it was understandable. She was a very complicated woman. Many of my family members were alienated from her at this time. Some for years and years and some for only the past few months to a year. To say she was difficult personality to deal with is an understatement. She could be hilarious and fun and lovely. She could also be biting like a rattlesnake and generally was very narcissistic person. And depending on who you were, you got more of the sunshine or more of the rain. My grandma played a game of favorites. It wasn't always stable, it wasn't always super clear, and it was not based in any kind of objective reality. I was almost always one of her favorites. I got mostly sunshine from her. But even then I would get bitten on occasion. Many more of my family members would get her stormy side. And the pain she caused to a great many of people in our family affected me even if it wasn't directed at me. I put off seeing her for so long because I knew there were many fractured relationships in the family with her and I didn't want to be in the middle of all of it. There was also part of me that was scared that in her illness she would be more stormy than normal and I didn't want one of my last visits with her to be shrouded in bad memories. In the end, I feel good about when I saw her. She was very ill and was in and out of sleep most of the time Andrea and I were there. But when she was lucid she was on her best sunshiney behavior. We talked, we laughed, we sang. And I got to say goodbye one last time and carry sweet memories with me.

The day she died I was notified when I was at a party with friends. I excused myself to go to the bathroom for a few minutes to absorb the information. I had so many conflicting feelings. Relief that she was out of pain. Relief that she couldn't cause anymore new hurts for anyone in my family. Sadness that I'd lost my grandma. Sadness that so many of her relationships were broken and unamended before death.  Happiness that I had made peace with her before she died. Gratefulness that my examination of my feelings around her death helped me to understand my own life and struggles more. Andrea and I listened to my and my grandma's special song, Forever in Blue Jeans, all the way back to Chico and up into the foothills so I could look at the stars and grieve in the quiet darkness above Chico. It was sweet and beautiful and I was so glad Andrea was by my side.

Having compassion for someone who was so complicated and difficult was hard. So many times I just wanted to be angry at her for the way she treated her family. But from the little I know about her childhood, I began to understand that her childhood was not great. And that the way she had been treated as a child invariably affected who she was as a person and how she treated her family. And how my family had been treated by her had affected the people they were and how they treated their families. And that was one of the biggest seeds of compassion I had for her, for my family and for myself. Mental illness and personality disorders are abundant and apparent in my family. She was both a root and a symptom of this cycle. In her last months, her death and after I learned to love her completely while not excusing all the hurt she caused. And now in her death, I can focus on the fond memories and the good times I had with her and not feel as conflicted and confused with recognizing that who she was to me was not who she was to everyone, and that faults and all, I believe she did the best she could with a very limited skill set. Everyone else is entitled to feel about her as they want. I would never ask them to make peace with her or her memory because their experience of her was much different. I choose to have compassion and love for them as they make sense of their feelings about her whatever they may be.

Mary Ann Briggs
October 30, 1927 - October 7th, 2014

I lost my last grandparent, my dad's mom, Grandma Briggs in October. Her death was also not unexpected. She had Alzheimer's, and in many ways, had stopped being my grandma before she died. She was my grandma, yes, but Alzheimer's had robbed her of so much that it was more of a long process of saying goodbye to the person she had been my whole life. Even when I saw her in the summer for the last time, there was still so much of her sweetness, humor and loving kindness even though she was very sick and wasn't quite sure who I was anymore. She was also in hospice care for the last few months of her life.

The Tuesday she died I didn't feel much. I had the vague feeling of sadness because she had died, but in many ways, also relief that my family wasn't waiting on her death anymore. And that closure could finally begin. So many of my family members had been paralyzed by their grief since she went to live in senior home when her Alzheimer's had gotten bad enough that she could no longer live on her own. Now that her life was over I hoped they could move through their feelings in a more permanent way rather than bobbing like buoys with each new change in her condition. I didn't even cry that first day, which actually disturbed me more than her death. I had cried when my Grandma Gatlin died and yet, here at the death of my sweet, sweet grandma I couldn't cry. I felt terrible. As if I had loved her less or something.

The next day I woke up and felt like I had absolutely no energy to teach. And that feeling was made worse by the fact that I taught a once a week 3 hour block class. Cancelling class would make making up the work way more difficult, but making it through 3 hours when I felt so hollow seemed impossible. I decided to find a documentary related to the day's topic to show and I decided to bring snacks for my class. My grandma LOVED to feed people. It was her greatest joy in life. It felt like a good way to remember her by feeding my class. As I started to explain to my class why there were snacks at the front of the room and that we'd be watching a documentary instead of our regular discussions and activities I started crying. Public crying has always been hard for me, but crying in front of my students felt a little horrifying. At the same time I thought "Oh, well there are those tears that didn't come yesterday." So many of my students came over to hug me and express their condolences before they got their snacks and we started the movie. That was actually more horrifying. I am not a touchy-feely person. I really hate touching people besides my closest, most intimate people. But I also felt like I couldn't be a jerk when I had just made several of my students cry from my raw emotion. So I hugged them all and thanked them all.

As I processed the feelings and events that week I realized why I had such a delayed reaction of grief. My Grandma Briggs was probably one of the sweetest and kind people to ever grace this earth. I didn't have a single bad memory of her. Every single memory I had of her was happy, joyous and funny. In contrast to my Grandma Gatlin, my Grandma Briggs' death felt almost "easy." It was sad, yes, but not complicated or problematic or overwhelming. I had a lot of time to make peace with her vanishing memory from Alzheimer's and I had absolutely no sorrow for how she had loved her family and the relationships she had. Even in death I was comforted by her sweetness. There was no bitterness, no hurt, nothing unresolved. And until I fed my class I didn't realize how much of my sweetness and gentleness came from her. My tears were more about how I'd lost a loving role model in my life, but how much of an impact she'd had on her family in a positive way. I had nothing to resolve and in that I found my ability to grieve her.

It was a rough year for loss, but I made it through and have come out the other side stronger, 

more stable and with a clearer sense of self than ever before.

Sharp Memories

LOL. I was looking for a picture about how scary knives are in the kitchen...but I was being very careful not to google search any terms that would bring up graphic pictures that would scare the bejesus out of me. This was one of the first ones that popped up and it's actually perfect. Whew.

Knives terrify me. Not just big, scary, hunting knives. But even little weenie kitchen knives. I don't know where my knife obsession started. I think I've been scared of knives as long as I can remember.

My family tells stories. We are a family of story tellers. Sometimes I remember the story vividly because I was there, but sometimes I remember the story vividly because I've heard it so many times that it feels like I was there. Sometimes I can't remember if I was there or not, but I've heard the story so many times it doesn't really matter.

My Grandma Gatlin was a complicated lady. But one thing for sure was that she was a clumsy, blundering oaf with a wicked sense of humor (when she wasn't being flat out wicked). Some of my favorite ridiculous stories are of her in her essence, just being her. One of those stories involves knives. I wasn't there; I think it happened before I was born. But as the story goes, she got a new set of knives. She was excited and bragging about them (as she was wont to do). She held up the box to show them off and she happened to be holding the box upside down and the knives came tumbling out and into her feet. Ouch. But also? Sorta hilarious. Maybe that's where my fear of knives started, but I'm not sure.

I remember being younger and trying to help cook. The knives always scared me. I'd have visions of me slicing off my fingers on accident. I still have visions of doing that. I am a lot like my Grandma Gatlin (hopefully nicer). I could never be one of those chefs that chop things a thousand miles a minute. I shudder just thinking about it.

When I see those minimalist knife strips in people's kitchens I purposely go NOWHERE near them. I'm always afraid they'll fall off and slice my feet off. Dear god I would never have one of those in my kitchen. Nightmare.

My first partner was an alcoholic. I've dated several alcoholics. Alcoholism runs through my mom's family like blood runs through everyone else's. It was my first serious adult relationship. It was also my first out lesbian relationship. She was and is a good person; we are still in contact. She was also a crazy alcoholic. I was with her for three years but had been breaking up with her continually for the last two. I'd break up with her and kick her out. She'd beg for me to take her back. She'd wear me down because I was too busy, too crazy, too emotionally underdeveloped to keep saying no. Things continued to get worse and worse. I continued to get meaner and meaner. I didn't know how else to convince her to stay away. We would scream horrible things at each other when she was drunk and me at her while she was hungover. She was habitually losing or quitting her job and I was the one who managed our finances.




One night she had plans with her asshole friends. I hated her friends and they hated me. Our relationship was truly dysfunctional. I gave her $20 for the night and a new pack of cigarettes (she was also a smoker). I was studying for finals (I was in my MPH program at the time). She came home that night drunk and belligerent. She came into the office where I was studying and demanded I give her money so she could go buy more cigarettes. I said no way. How she had smoked 20 cigarettes and spent $20 in 4 hours was not my business. She'd have to wait until tomorrow. She was pissed. She kept trying to argue with me. I told her to shut up and leave me alone because I was busy. This went on for several minutes. I was getting more and more angry that she would not shut up and just go pass out in bed. She came over to where I was sitting and drunkenly tried to grab my book that I was studying from. She missed and clumsily punched me in the jaw. It didn't really hurt, but in my anger and frustration and years of being worn down, I snapped. I jumped up and pinned her against the wall and told her she better never lay a hand on me. She lost it. She was kicking me in the shins and shrieking. I let her go. She walked into the kitchen and grabbed the cordless phone and turned and hurled it at me in the doorway. The dogs scattered. I told her to calm the fuck down. She was absolutely hysterical at this point. Screaming and crying and threatening. She walked over to the sink and leaned against it. Then she started grabbing knives from the knife block and hurling them at me like she was a ninja or something. Luckily she was so very very drunk. I strode across the room dodging her knives and grabbed her by the waistband of her jeans and dragged her to the front door. I opened it, threw her on the porch, closed and locked the door. She stood outside screaming that she was going to call the police and press charges.

I called first.

They came and found her hiding in the bushes at the neighbors house with a steak knife. They arrested her and took her to jail. This was not the first time I had called the cops or the first time she had been taken away. But it was the first time they took her to jail. Previously they had taken her to the local public hospital and locked her in the psych ward until she sobered up. And because she didn't have insurance they would let her out the next day and tell her to follow up with a therapist for treatment. She never did. And we'd start the cycle back over. But this time she went to jail. I didn't actually want her to go to jail. I wanted her to move out and stay out. I wanted her to go to rehab. But mostly I just wanted her out of my life. I bailed her out the next day on the promise that we were absolutely and positively done this time. I had a temporary restraining order against her mandated by the judge until her hearing. A month later, she was still out of my life and walked into court and I dropped all charges. The DA's office tried to bully me into not dropping them. But I knew jail wasn't going to do her any good. She needed rehab and it wasn't going to happen there. She went to rehab many times after that, and then was arrested many years later and spent some time in jail. She got sober for good then. Maybe I should have pressed charges and she would have gotten sober earlier. Or maybe she wasn't ready and it wouldn't have mattered. She's sober now. And her life is good. She's good person.

The knife block stayed. Her dogs stayed. I had 4 dogs and me in the house. I was spiraling down into the worst period of my OCD in my life. I started worrying that I might lose my mind. I might lose my mind and have a psychotic break with reality and might stab all the dogs to death. Every time I walked by the knife block I worried I was nanoseconds away from losing my grip and I would slaughter all my dogs. I had vivid visions of the blood bath. It was terrifying. This was before I knew anything about violent, harming obsessions and scary intrusive thoughts. I just thought I was fucking nuts and a latent homicidal maniac. I loved my dogs more than anything in the whole world. I would never kill them. But I was worried I would. I was so worried that I ending up hiding the knife block in a far back cabinet. I knew they were there, but if I didn't see them every time I walked by the kitchen it felt better. I convinced myself that if I went nuts I probably wouldn't remember where the knives were. When my roommate moved in I got rid of the knife block and got a different one. I was more convinced that I wouldn't go on a murderous snap now that I had a roommate. Why? I don't know. I suppose I thought he'd notice if I started acting like a psycho losing grip on reality. I stopped thinking about killing my dogs. My brain moved on to different obsessions.


But I'm still scared of knives.

The Move

Simple statement: We moved from Santa Cruz, CA to Indianapolis, IN when I was 8 and 1/2.

Only recently have I realized what a huge impact that had on my life.

Of course, moving is hard to do. For anyone. Especially for kids. But the farther, the harder. The younger, the harder. Although if you're really young, it actually might be easier. My sister (obviously) also moved from Santa Cruz to Indianapolis. But they were 3 and 1/2 and 1. Their memories of Santa Cruz are scant (or nonexistent) and filtered through the memories of a toddler. So in some ways, my sisters and I have very different lived experiences of moving.

I know we talked about moving in advance, because duh, my parents are not total psychos. I also know because this was during the time my sister Leslie was obsessed with the concept of death and talked about dying all.the.time. And one of my mom's favorite stories is when she was explaining the move to Leslie she said something along the lines of "we're gonna pack up all the toys and all our stuff into a big truck and we're going to ride in the truck with the kitties and we're going to drive and drive and drive, and then we're going to sleep, and then we're going to drive and drive and drive, and then we're going to sleep again and then we're going to drive and drive and drive and then we'll be in Indiana!" And my little death-obsessed sister said "And then we die?" And my mom freaked out and screamed "NO! NO ONE IS GOING TO DIE! STOPPING WORRYING ABOUT PEOPLE DYING!" and that pretty much was the end of her death obsession that had gone on for months. I can't recall specific discussions, but I'm positive we talked about moving and what that meant.

But I also know that a) my parents don't do emotions all that well and b) they do not have an OCD brain like mine.

Both of my parents were raised in homes where emotions were both ignored and dangerous (in the sense of vulnerability). And as happens in families, my parents weren't equipped to deal healthily with emotions in their childhoods so they passed many of those ill-equipped coping skills down in their family (though with many more improvements over what they had).

I also had undiagnosed, untreated OCD. And I was good at hiding a lot of it. As I've been learning over the past few years, this is the story for many kids with OCD. We don't realize that our fears are disproportionate to most people's. We think everyone obsesses and worries and compulsively does things. It's not until much later, and after much hiding, and much affect on our lives that we realize we're actually very, very different. To compound things, I lived in a family that didn't do lots of touchy feely "let's talk about emotions" and we were a pretty different, not-so-mainstream family. My parents knew I was quirky and different, but in my family nonconformity and quirkiness were (mostly) celebrated. My parents are free thinkers, and my mom is an artist, and my dad is very much an aloof sort of guy (mostly because he's trapped in his own web of anxiety and fear). So between my hiding my worries and my parents focus on different things, my OCD ran rampant and unchecked, and my parents discussed the move with me, but didn't tell me ALL THE THINGS an OCD child needs to think about, worry about, prepare for, etc. etc. etc. And to be completely honest, I don't know any parent could have really prepared me for that move. Medication and therapy probably would have helped, but hindsight is 20/20.

Things that had a profound impact on me related to the move, in no particular order:

My cats almost died of heat stroke in the middle of the desert. They were fainting and gasping for breath and my mom and aunt had to rush them into a rest stop and plunge them under the water faucets.

One night we stopped to sleep in the back of the truck (our Mazda B2000; not the moving truck!). I was out of sorts and a nervous wreck and I peed the "bed." And I happened to be sharing the bed with my entire family. They were not happy. I was deeply ashamed and embarrassed.

Right before we got to Indiana, my cats were freaking out. I let Patches out of her carrier and she was so terrified she peed all over me. Cat pee on me + aforementioned peeing the bed = OMG meltdown.

My mom went to work full-time for the first time in my life after we moved to Indiana. Having a stay at home mom in Santa Cruz to a working mom in Indiana likely made me romanticize childhood in Santa Cruz and associate Indiana with the first loss of my mother I experienced.

I became a latch-key kid in Indiana...sort of. We lived with my aunt for the first year in Indiana. She worked night shift as a nurse. I came home after school and let myself in because both of my parents were at work. I was technically not without adult supervision...my aunt was in the house. But she was sleeping and I pretty much had to have my hair on fire to wake her up without feeling like I was going to be in trouble. So mostly I felt alone and that was scary.

I got a prank call that first year from some creep who was asking me if my parents were home and generally scaring the shit out of me. I remember being terrified and all the adults in my life acting like it was no big deal. The event is very foggy, but the terror is/was not.

I was the weird kid at school. I carried Bay Area surfer culture language with me. I said weird words, I didn't know what a lot of Hoosier-specific words meant. I spent all of third grade trying to learn a new world of Hoosier heartland values, language and culture.

There was a tornado that passed very close to my school that first year. I remember crouching in the hallway at school and thinking I was going to die. I moved to Indiana and now I'm dying from a tornado that is going to hit my school. Great. That was my first experience with tornadoes and it was terrifying. Tornadoes are still one of my biggest fears.

It snowed the week before Halloween. We had to wear sweatsuits under our costumes. I used to be a baton twirler in a leotard and now I was a lumpy princess who was freezing to death. No one prepared me for that shit.

Dry, dry weather and central heat = nosebleeds. Terrible, terrible nosebleeds. Blood gushing from my face. That was terrifying.

My parents bought a house! That was great! But now it was a big house and I'd never lived in a big house with my own room at the opposite end of the house from my parents. That was scary. And this house was in a new school district. Another new school.

I grew up with my cousins on my mom's side. They were my first gang/crew/peeps. In Indiana I didn't have any cousins. My aunt/uncle had a niece on my aunt's side and she became my loosely defined cousin. We spent time together, but lived farther apart and went to different schools so it wasn't the same. This was pre-Internet time so I lost close contact with my cousins for a long time. That was a significant loss.

There's probably more bits and pieces along the way. But these are the major ones that stick out for me. These things have shaped my life in significant ways. I'll keep unpacking these things in the future. Both in therapy, in my life and on my blog. OCD makes everything harder.

Little Buddy

Part 1:

 

My little cutie

Staring at you makes me wonder

Why not share my genes?

Part 2:

Shut up lady parts

No one asked your opinion

Not ready for babes!

All right now STOP! SISTER TIME!

When my ex decided to leave and my world was in chaos my sister was feeling sad and sorry for me so booked a ticket to visit me for her fall break. Her school district moved to a "balanced calendar" system and she has a two week long fall break which was perfect for her to take a week vacay to see sad old me! Luckily, I'm not sad anymore so we could just enjoy our time together. She is still here until Wednesday but she was complaining about not having any blog posts to read so I decided to throw her a bone and make a quick blog post.


Her first night here we just chillaxed and didn't do much. She likes to pretend like I'm ALWAYS on my phone, but she is no better. She's always on her phone or tablet as well. We are a bunch of internet junkies.

 

Luckily she loves my doggies and doesn't mind them laying all over her all the time. 

 

Target is like our Mecca so of course we had to make a visit to the Chico Target. And of course when we saw Turkey Hats we had to model them. Because duh! Who wouldn't?!?!

 

 

We LOVE geocaching so we had to squeeze some of that in of course! Found some cool ones in Upper Park @ Bidwell Park!

 

 

We apparently also have a hat trying on addiction. We first pretended to be guests at the Royal Wedding and then tried on flapper style hats in an homage to Thoroughly Modern Millie, a family fav!

 

Finally, my sister has attended several social gatherings with me during her time here. We went to a birthday party brunch/lunch this morning and caught a few cute snaps of us together! 

 

She has two more full days here so there will be sure to be more photo ops! One more blog post at least for her to read.

365: Poking the Belly

When my sisters and I were little we used to fight over who got to "poke the belly" of a new tub of butter. Poking the belly meant you'd stab or otherwise maim the middle of a tub of butter usually where there was a swirl. I have no idea where "poking the belly" came from but after googling a while it was apparent this was just one more weird thing my family made up. I'm guessing we made it up because the butter looks sort of like a belly button? One of the best things about being a grown up is that I have pretty much free range to always poke the belly now. Because Ange doesn't even know what the hell that means nor does she get excited about it. And no smelly little sisters trying to elbow their way in!

365: Pizzerias Long Lost Cousin?

Anybody out there besides my sisters and mother remember Pizzerias? Also known as the best chips ever invented? My mother and I were obsessed with them. So delicious. And then, tragically, one day that stopped making them. It was devastation central. My mom has even dreamed of them years later if that tells you anything about our level of fanaticism.

Today I was at Winco picking up some groceries. When I got to the check out line my eyes feasted upon these beauties. Could it be? New pizza chips? I was hesitant to get my hopes up, but I knew I had to do it for my mother's sake. It was a good choice. Although not as good as Pizzeria's, they're pretty close. Hopefully these continue to be made and are more widely available!

365: House of Weirdos

A small glimpse into the weirdo house that is ours. I got my faculty regalia today. Since I'll only wear it once a year and it cost an arm and a leg I thought I'd practice using it and get some more mileage. I bet our dogs never thought they'd get doctor water!

Ange has a presentation she is nervous about tomorrow. She decided to practice for me tonight. Naturally to practice you need to full get into the moment and sanding next to the kitchen table is almost like a classroom right?

Doesn't everybody do these things at home?

365: Looking Out Over the Pride Land

Duke likes to pretend he's the Lion King. He'll sit at the top step of the deck for hours on end just watching the world go by. And by world go by I mean nothing happening. Because duh, we live at the bottom of the canyon. Maybe he sees a bird fly by every once in a while. Maybe he's reflecting back over his life. Who knows? All I know is he loves it and he sure looks cute doing it!

365: Rock On Old Man

Duke doesn't really like to play with dog toys. But he does love some rocks. We went on a walk this morning and he found this rock about a 1/4 of a mile from the house. He scooped it up and decided he didn't want either of us getting it so he ran ahead about 50 yards and kept looking back to make sure we were still coming but not close enough that his rock was in danger. When we finally got back to the house he ran out of places to go and I could finally snap his picture. He tried to sneak it in the house but got in trouble; he knows the rules, no rocks in the house!

365: BIL

I somehow managed to not take a single picture today. But as I was looking through my pics to see if there was one I might say something about I flipped all the way back to December and found this gem! And then nearly fell out of my chair laughing!

Every year for the past 4 or 5 years I've taken my brother-in-law (BIL henceforth) Christmas shopping to buy gifts for my sister. We started this tradition after two years of him attempting to shop with his BFF, in which he was sucked into buying totally lame gifts by his dumb BFFs ideas and stupid salesgirl pitches. After coming home with $80 Victoria's Secret pjs and two scarf sets he decided he needed help. And ever since then it's been my job to help him.

In the midst of this tradition, we started another one. The "here's Clint wearing a funny hat combination." It's usually a silly Christmas themed hat, or sometimes a sports related hat. This year we didn't find anything good until our last stop (and after a text from my mom wondering where the crazy hat pic was!). We had to improvise and find the goofy thing available. The best part is that BIL has a giant gord so while I'm trying to set up the shot he's hissing at me to hurry before his head contents under pressure. Ahhh, good memories.

365: Last Day!

Today was the last full day of my dad and stepmom's visit with us. We are sad to see them go but know they're ready to go home! We'll see them again in a few months.

On our last day we were busy, busy, busy! We saw lots of sights, had some good food, and enjoyed spending time together. One of my favorite parts of the day was getting Thrifty Ice Cream with them! When I was little my dad worked at Thrifty and when we went to see him at work he'd always give a scoop of ice cream! This was the first time we've ate Thrifty Ice Cream together in over 20 years! Good memories with my pop :)

365: Tradition

Some years ago my mom got a surprising amount of money back on her tax return. On a whim she sent me and my sisters each a hundred dollar bill. The next year she did the same thing. And thus began a tradition!

The best part is that I ALWAYS forget about it. Sure $100 is G R E A T, but it's not SO huge that I sit around wondering about it from January to April. So when it comes it's always a super fun surprise that I don't expect even though once I remember I'm like "oh yeahhhh." Even when I got the envelope I was thinking "What's my mom sending me?" It's not until the crisp lovely bill sails into my lap that I remember. It's awesome.

Thanks mom! ♥

365: The Sun Came Out to Play

Thankfully the sun decided to make an appearance today. It's been raining every. single. day. of my dad & stepmom's trip to CA. A little deflating for them. But today the weather cooperated all day and we got to take a walk, go to the farmers market and have lunch outside! Hopefully the same weather happens tomorrow!

365: The Father Ship Has Arrived

My dad and stepmom arrived at Camp Awesome today! We chose to have a relaxing day and evening at the camp since they've been on the go, go, go since they've arrived in California. We even got them to play a game of A to Z! All in all a good first day visit even if it has been raining the entire time they've been here!

365: (Winona's) Wild Wine Weekend!

Today was a BLAST. We hit 5 spots & sampled from 8 wineries. I don't think I've laughed so hard in ages. This was at the first stop and goofball's look was only a preview of things to come! I think we celebrated Winona's birthday in style! We're definitely going to have to come back to Santa Cruz soon!

365: Wow

We are leaving Indy tonight. Apparently NYE is not a popular night to fly! I don't think I've ever seen a departure board this empty here. Hopefully the flights home go off without a hitch! Goodbye all my lovelies! We'll miss you and see you next year!

365: Hibachi Dinner

Ange's dad, brother and nephews came up for the evening and we decided to go out for Japanese for dinner. Only the two older nephews had ever been to hibachi so it was a fun experience to see the other Japanese "virgins" take in the experience. The best, of course, was Lane who is 6. You would have thought he died and went to heaven. My favorite part is when he said "Aunt Lindsay he was a REALLY good chef. You really should try this steak, I think it's the best I've ever had!" So cute and earnest. But even with cute overload I stuck to my veggies :)