Hey, Where's the Cream Filling?

I’m a person of very decisive, stubborn constitution. I decided in 3rd grade that I wanted to be a creative writer, and until my last year of college, I was happy to live in a dream world of metaphors, imagery, and shiny things, much like Nicole Richie’s happy world that she describes as “la la loooooo.”

My education happened in classrooms where professors said things like, “These rows of desks are stifling my creativity” and “Close your eyes and try to imagine the smell of the pestilence in Eliot’s Waste Land.” Unfortunately, there aren’t many careers open to those who can reign triumphant every night in Wheel of Fortune, quote centuries worth of our language’s finest literature, develop engaging plots and characters, and tell you why we have words with silent letters.

In my perfect world, where all careers are equal, I’d have a job like Crayola color namer, Twinkie filler, or storm chaser without making any changes to my current paycheck. However, for now, the world is not under my jurisdiction, so we all have to have sensible careers that pay the bills. My former imaginative and sometimes-whimsical self is now stuck at a desk working in budgeting doing the practical thing. Every so often, the confinement of a cube becomes almost overwhelming. Imagine how it feels to be only yea big and not be about the see anyone over the walls or see out. You start to lose your sense of being. I’m like a canary, I at least need to have something reflective in my cage, excuse me, cube, so I can verify I’m still there; so I stole a windowed cube panel from someone else to be able to reflect some light and look at myself.

I’m not sure if it’s reassuring or depressing that I’m not alone in opting for a career in the realm of practicality over fun. Instead of owning a software development company, my dad would be much happier as our local Tastycake deliveryman where he could get a discount on delicious Tastycake treats and make friends with every 7-11 worker in Fairfax County. I guess practicality eventually overrules the “la la loooooo” in my family.

In a blatant rip off of M’s blog shtick, I ask you, why not put aside our notions of what is a sensible way to make a living and think of how we’d most enjoy spending 40-plus hours a week (without debt)? With a little thought, even the most asinine career plan can be practical. Now, stay with me here, as I will show you how to rationalize your own career move.

Before going into her first brain surgery, my mom entertained the idea that she may lose important information in her memory bank. She told us to ask her one important question when she was in recovery, “Susan, do you still think zebras are super-cool?” If she answered in the affirmative, everything was in there. Since she answered yes, and still thinks zebras are super-cool, I figure we could talk my mom into making Zebra Cakes at Little Debbie. This opens the door to my dream of Twinkie-filling and the Tastycakes dancing in my dad’s head. With all three of us living the dream, there would be a diversified Vandersluis empire within the cream-filled snack treat industry, which, in my book, creeps into the realm of practicality and eventual fortune. Never underestimate a girl with a dream.

Minutiae

I haven’t written in a while, and until I feel like writing something that was not assigned to me at work or in school, I’ll give you some traditional narcissistic blog minutiae to keep up with the masses writing about their earth shattering everyday lives:

Today I woke up at 6:50 AM. I was supposed to get up at 6:00. I set my alarm for PM instead of AM. I’ve done that twice this week.

I had two pieces of wheat toast for breakfast, toasted on level 4, which is just past halfway between light and dark on my toaster which I got at Wal-Mart for $10, which sometimes makes a buzzing noise at me if it doesn’t feel like toasting that day. On one piece of toast I put sugar free jam. On the other I put fat-free, low-cal “butter” spray. I wish I had eaten half a box of mini powdered donettes and a Super Big Gulp of Diet Coke instead.

When I got off the Metro today, I had a sharp pain in my left foot. That sharp pain has been there for a week. I believe it is a consequence of wearing 3-inch heels and walking to and from the Metro everyday. I would wear flats, but just one person in my entire company knows I’m really only 5’1”. I must choke back the pain and persevere.

I almost got hit by a car on the walk to my office. It would have been my fault. I was jaywalking and staring at myself in a store window trying to see if I was walking all gimpy.

I had “Whoomp There It Is” in my head from 9:00 until about 10:45 today. It’s hard to balance the DoD’s budget to that beat.

At 11:00, I lined up animal crackers across my desk, like animal with like animal, and hummed circus organ music. Halfway down the line, somewhere around the camels, I got tired eating of animal crackers and put them back in the bag.

Around 2:00, I pondered why candy corn looks nothing like corn. My coworker pondered why candy corn is named as such while jelly beans are not called candy beans. We then wondered if the candying of vegetables is a conspiracy to make children identify more positively with the vegetable group. Our other coworker confused our theory by bringing up candied yams, which are not a candy.

At 4:10, I realized that just about every female Government worker is named Kathy. I also realized that my voicemail recording at this customer site says I’m Joy Fulton. Maybe I'll change it tomorrow.

At 7:15, I went to dinner at my parents’. That’s a good thing since the only food left in my apartment right now is sugar free jam, fat-free, low-cal “butter” spray, half of a Hershey bar, and a can of Diet Sprite. I briefly considered going grocery shopping after dinner, but then I decided I would rather do nothing instead.

Man 2.0—The Future, Today!

So, I’ve recently started seeing a guy who’s prettier than I am. He even has softer hands than I do. I must say I’m absolutely fascinated by his ability to be pretty and manly at the same time, without being a male bimbo, or “mimbo”. He’s a member of a superior sect of the human race that’s become a Man 2.0 of sorts. It appears that the male side of the species has recently evolved in the way that women did during World War II where the beauties of the time became even more enhanced with the advent of Rosie the Riveter. The metrosexual movement, in its less extreme form these days, has evened out to a less shocking, but equally awe-inspiring, group that can squish bugs and lift things as well as Man 1.0, but looks much better doing it.

Man 2.0 creates a real quandary in our minds and defines a new paradox that will forever throw the gender stereotypes of yore out of whack. We females have to come to terms with both getting everything we ever wished for—a manly man with a bathroom counter full of nicer products than we have—and feeling that twinge of jealousy over cheeks that are naturally rosy as opposed to our artfully painted ones.

An encounter with Man 2.0 makes us realize that we can no longer rest on our feminine laurels as the fairer sex. There’s stiff competition out there in the form of Man 2.0. He’s everything we fancy ourselves to be in our cosmetic counter reveries—lovely on the outside and strong on the inside.

After getting over my minor bout of jealousy, I realized that snaring a Man 2.0 is better than having your proverbial cake and eating it too. It’s like having the whole dessert tray and then finding out it was all fat-free. When my Man 2.0 arrives at my place to go out and I’m still fighting the good fight against my thick, wavy hair, he totally understands that it takes time and a few burns from the flat iron to be the loveliest date possible. Ladies, these guys make all of the work worth it.

But alas, there’s a dark side to Man 2.0. The materialistic mutation of this sect can cause your average girl more anxiety than sorority rush. All of you women who complain about your husbands and boyfriends not noticing when you get a quarter of an inch cut off your hair may need to spend an evening with the dark side to appreciate the traditional cosmetically-oblivious bunch of guys we know and love. I was out one night with one of the dark ones who commented on my accessories using the designer names and then complimented me on my highlights and, get this, my lowlights. Talk about feeling on display. It made me so nervous to wear anything that didn’t have a fabulous label attached to it or, God forbid, put my hair in a ponytail, that I stressed monumentally over what I’d wear if I ever had to see him again. The threat of a run-in with these fools is enough to make you shake in your Old Navy track pants and $3.50 flip-flops.

As a disclaimer, I have to tell the remaining Men 1.0 out there that you’re not obsolete. I’m certainly obliged to assure you that your version of manliness is equally as desirable as the 2.0 upgrade, and females support both versions. As much as I’m on a Man 2.0 kick right now, it’s good to keep a few beer-guzzling, deer-hunting 1.0 friends around to jazz things up and keep me in touch with my football-watching (Go Virginia!), Jager-shot-taking Woman 2.0. Just as a smart investor diversifies her portfolio, the smart dater diversifies her collection of gentleman callers; and we all know that diversification ups our chances of profit. So, set aside your jealousy, girls, and grab yourself a shiny, new Man 2.0…the softer hands are worth it.

I Like What I Know and I Know What I Like

I’m aware that I’m not known for my love of change, but sometimes there’s a great relief—even to the most adventurous, well-traveled person—to come back to a place where one knows all the shortcuts around town and people’s back-stories. I feel like I could search every populated (definition of populated: more than one high school, mall, and highway where I can drive over 75 mph) area in the world and not find what I have now. Some people need to backpack across Europe for emotional clarity and others try to find themselves in places that are the complete opposite of what they came from, but my search for comfort and long-term happiness was easy; it was right where I left it.

One of my oldest friends, and an expatriate of the Good Ole Commonwealth of Virginia, came home to visit this past weekend. Always looking for a challenge, he said, “Doesn’t it bother you to come back after college and live less than 10 miles from where you grew up?” The short answer? No. But, I’m not one for short answers, so here’s the real scoop. If I had come from a town with one stoplight and mountain folk, maybe it would, but my return home has shown me more good in the area and residents of Fairfax, Virginia than I ever knew of or fully appreciated before I left for school. My complete answer to him would have to offer a bit of sentimentality. I get to live somewhere where I can remember that same little boy standing me up for the first 7th grade dance (yep, I lied when I said I forgave you) as well as someplace where I’m constantly making newer—less adolescently tragic, of course—memories.

I understand that returning to what you know may be too simple of an answer for most, but I think that the rightness of going native, per se, and returning to one’s roots depends on the past, present, and future of the location. If the place you have returned to is liquid and changes with the times just enough to stay fresh, you have a better chance of happiness, unless you’re like my grandma and really, really don’t like change. In addition to the ability of the area to advance and grow, you need to allow yourself to grow as well and revisit what you always knew with fresh eyes and the vigor of one arriving in a completely new location.

Consider the area as one that is rich with your own personal history. I take great joy in working mere blocks from where my parents first met in an elevator, passing old friends’ (parents’) houses when I take a short cuts around town, sitting at the bar at T.T. Reynold’s where my uncle worked over 20 years ago, and running into people that I haven’t seen in years and being happier to see them than I ever would have imagined.

People, by nature, just plain don’t change; however, the context in which you know them can. I’ve come home to most of my family, those I loved in the past, and those I wish I had known as well as I do now when we were growing up. I’m the luckiest girl alive because I can go out on a weekend and see what successes people from across the high school lunch room have become (or not—which is just as amusing); I can make up for the missed years of getting to know my 5th grade science partner and now next big thing in the world of photography, and set up my apartment with my new roommate and first friend in high school cheerleading. We all have a common ground from which we can tell each other new things. We’re able to speak from the same lexicon of experiences, places, and faces and understand each other without much explanation, regardless of how well we knew each other in the past.

I’m not asking that you reject change, but more that you don’t reject familiarity. It’s easy to make changes in what’s familiar, but it’s a struggle to find what’s familiar in change. Answers to our contentment in life aren’t simple, but sometimes they’re in the last place you look…right where you left them.

Thar She Blows

“SNACK HUT!” In one anagrammically delicious moment, my friend M had solved the mystery plaguing us since breakfast at Runk dining hall our 4th year. All morning we’d pondered how the marquee outside could have provided the resources for an impish dining hall goer to spell out “nut sack.” I had looked at her questioningly, and she turned away from CNN to say excitedly, “Nuuuuuut saaaaaaack! Ugh, alright Colin Powell, stop talking and let us see the weather report.” “You’re calling Colin Powell a nut sack?” I said, pointing at him speaking on the TV. “Huh? What about Colin Powell’s nut sack?” “Huh?” And so started the most quintessentially college treatment of natural disaster that Charlottesville had ever seen.

That evening, Hurricane Isabel hit Central Virginia. Most of us were ready. People had lined up at the grocery stores for hurricane necessities in a style reminiscent of the typical Virginia preparation for 2 inches of snow. Every store in town was sold out of Hurricane malt liquor, M and I had bought enough toilet paper and water to faux paper mache every inch of the ceiling, and our hatches were as battened-down as an apartment with an entire wall of windows could be. Students and townspeople alike were skeptical about the impact of a hurricane on an area so far inland, but after living there through a drought, two earthquakes, a massive snowstorm, and every type of natural state in between, who were we to judge?

After the electricity’s last gasp, M and I whipped out our flashlights and played flashlight tag, waiting for the alleged hurricane to come along. It didn’t take long for torrents of rainfall and gusty winds to assault the drainagely-challenged town and create more mud then you could shake one of the sticks slamming against your window at. Nervous about trees, cows, and other things that sail through the air in bad weather coming through the windows, we moved everything breakable and valuable into a more interior room, and huddled somberly in her bed watching “Top Secret !”on a laptop.

Things calmed down outside, and the hurricane passed over us. The students, festive with a few Hurricanes in their bellies, ventured outside. What one soon discovered was that, if you ignored fallen trees, strewn belongings, and down power lines, there was a wealth of fun to be had in the couple feet of mud that UVA grounds had been reduced to. The next day, the sunlight filtered through the remaining trees spotlighting abandoned flip flops lodged in drying mud, Hurricane bottles, an unfortunate North Face rain jacket stuck on a branch, and thousands of footprints fossilized across Grounds.

If only we could all stay in an age and mindset where even forces of nature can be cause for a theme party. Too often in the Real World we’re bogged down by the minutiae of life like traffic, deadlines, bills, and never having enough time. One has to question whether we truly don’t have enough time anymore to stay up late laughing with friends, enjoy a meal that doesn’t come from a drive-thru, and get together just for the heck of it or if we’ve lost the sense of what is a true priority in life. If the students at UVA had chosen to be sensible and stay inside during a storm instead of getting out and experiencing one of the few hurricanes Charlottesville will ever see, all they would have to show for their supposed good sense is less laundry and maybe a complete pair of flip flops. Life’s bigger than the everyday tasks. In 40 years, we won’t remember the project we’re spending weekends at the office to finish, the errands we have to run, or the guy who cut us off in traffic. Freedom doesn’t end unless we say so, and sometimes you have to squish a little mud between your toes to remember that.

The Mighty Ducks and the Battle of the Blemish

After I moved out for good, my parents took to vaporizing every memory of my childhood to create an oceanic-colored workout haven in what had once been my room. Gone are the closet doors that were emblazoned with sappy New Kids on the Block lyrics after elementary school love gone wrong, height markings from 6th grade when L, A, and I generously gave ourselves an extra inch or two (which I still have not achieved), and the date of my first real kiss. I’m proud to report that the pink duck-printed wallpaper I chose in kindergarten did not go down without a fight. After 18 years of tenancy, the ducks had absorbed themselves into the very fibers that make up the drywall and had to be sanded out. I like to imagine that the ducks screamed with agony and vowed revenge at that point, but it suffices me to know that my dad cut himself repeatedly in the duck removal process.

But do a few cans of paint and a sander erase memories or mask them? Are the ducks going to come quacking through the blue paint and scare my mom off the treadmill (again)? Will the next homeowner years down the road one day uncover that I kept track of important life events on a closet door before I got my first journal? I can only hope so.

How could one small girl have done so much damage to a room? There are battle wounds on the tan carpet from the time I dribbled red nail polish, the many times I splattered Diet Coke everywhere, and my mom’s personal favorite, the bleached-out spot where I missed my hand and shot alpha hydroxy-laced lotion on the carpet. That bleached spot represents a feverish night where my dad and I learned to let the proverbial sleeping dogs lie, leave well enough alone, and the meaning of every other cliché my angry mother spat at us during her spot-discovery hissy fit. Dad, always a trooper, thought that we should try to mask the spot rather than just cover it or let it exist in its full glory. Now, tan carpet shouldn’t be that difficult to match, but when you’re starting with a sickeningly tangerine-colored blemish the size of a dinner plate (I shouldn’t have tried to wipe it up first), the task becomes far more difficult. We started by pouring Diet Coke on the spot to neutralize (and quench the thirst of in a calorie-free manner) the color. That didn’t work, so we moved down a notch on the color wheel and tried Worcestershire sauce next. That wasn’t quite right either, and the spot was getting rather fragrant at that point. The last attempt was coffee. Well, coffee may stain teeth to the color of my bedroom carpet, but apparently it doesn’t do the same to other materials. As we were contemplating not only how to return color to the carpet but how to get the smell out, my bleary-eyed mom came in the room to see why we were still up. We jerked our heads up guiltily and her Momvision focused in on the spot. “Pat!!” she shrieked. He pointed at me. “Kelly!!” she corrected. She was livid and practically pushed us aside to get a better look. “What. Have you done,” she measured. I just looked at her pathetically. There’s nothing you can do in a situation like this. She won’t feel sorry for me no matter what I say, so the best course of action is to back away and let her attack the blotch herself. “For Pete’s sake…” she mumbled. “Who’s Pete?” I whispered, to which my mom glared a response and my dad stammered something about going downstairs and “makin’ himself up an Alka-Seltzer.” The next day, the spot was covered with a small blue rug that my mom threatened me not to mess up under penalty of death. Luckily the treadmill covers the spot nicely now in their new room.

I don’t know if I expected my parents to freeze time and keep my room in tact as an homage to their little princess’ youth. Okay, I do know. That’s exactly what I wanted. I’m an attention whore. Maybe light a scented candle each night under my framed senior portrait? Nothing big. My dad presented me one night with a bag of “cremains” from my room. Looking at the bag of pink dust that once was wallpaper made trite, melodramatic tears well-up in my eyes and an equally banal montage course through my mind. The projection TV in my head showed me at 3 watching Sesame Street, coloring peacefully at my table, and singing along to the educational anthems of our youth. I then saw myself at 5 pretending to be a Hallmark cashier ringing up all of my treasures for unseen customers. I was a strange child. That scene faded—no, this is a good place for a star wipe—into me sitting on my bed at 11 crying about having to get glasses and wiping my nearsighted peepers on Teddy’s absorbent, furry ears. Alright, now fade into me at 15 crying, again, about not getting asked to the Homecoming dance, and then segue into me packing my most-prized possessions to take away to college, not knowing at the time that my room would never again truly feel like it was mine.

Somewhere under all that paint and new pictures are the scarred walls of my childhood. I’ll admit that I was slightly bitter about the transformation for a while, but it’s hard to ignore how good the room looks without me there to muck it up. There are still relics of the 18 years spent there that will never go away. One can still hear that god-forsaken Woodson High School marching band clearly on a crisp fall day, enjoy the same view into the house behind us, and know that the bleached-out spot will one day be unearthed again to taunt my mom with its unnatural color and faint scent of everything brown in the kitchen.

Keys on a Lanyard and the Future in Your Hands

The first year of college is like a suspension of time and reality in which you learn to ride out extremes. You learn who you really are by your position amongst people who are on academically and statistically even ground with you. All of the prior years in school are futile in preparing a first year student for college. These four years are a social psych experiment disguised as an education based on book learnin’ from high school. The first, and most important, thing I learned at UVA was that I’m not smart. I was thrust into mediocrity the day I arrived in Charlottesville. And I have to tell you, that was fine with me. Luckily the majority of students realize within the first few weeks that school isn’t everything. Only half of the actual benefit of college is understood while one is a student there. Those benefits involve karaoke that’s so bad it’s good, student discounts, stories that start with “allegedly I,” football games, and bonding with people whose last names you never find out after four years of being good friends. What can compare to the giggles you get over people whose names have been replaced by elaborate monikers to distinguish them from the rest, like Pledge Dave, Hot-Not-Soccer-But-Actually-Lacrosse Matt, and Hairy Theta Delt Guy?

Thankfully, college is the gift that keeps on giving after graduation. Forget the benefits of a college degree in the work world. I’m talking about every time you see your school’s team win a close game, going back for homecoming, knowing that someone is a decent human being just because they have a UVA license plate, and the knowledge that you’re part of a population that, since 1819, has found a way to leave a legacy (or stain) on the serene landscape of Central Virginia.

By far, first year is the greatest of the four years at school, but that’s simply because it’s the only year you can never recreate, no matter how hard you try. There’s no way to reinstate the fear, excitement, innocence, and freedom of being away from home for the first time. Not only are there no parents around, but everyone is the same age and within walking distance.

The only thing a student can come armed with is a willingness to resign to naiveté. No one can give you adequate advice on going off to school; however before my parents left me that first night, my dad offered me three recommendations: 1. Never drink anything that was mixed in a trashcan, 2. Fix myself up and study at the med school library often, and 3. Make myself look pretty and approachable, and go sit on the steps of the law school. My parents had invested a lot in me during the past 18 years. As my dad once told a boyfriend of mine at dinner, “After all of the dance lessons, hair appointments, and clothes I’ve paid for, I think that it’s about time I got a return on my investment. Don’t you agree, son?” He didn’t. It’s okay. I’m quite a handful. I didn’t follow my dad’s first piece of advice, and I thoroughly rebelled against the last two sagacious bits. I’m still trucking along just fine, well, other than that nasty addiction to trashcan punch.

My first year of school mostly consisted of practicing with the cheerleading squad, stealing things from the guys’ suites below us, going fratting in too-tight black pants, and gallivanting about Charlottesville knowing that anything stupid I did could be absolved by the phrase, “I’m a first year, hehe.” One of my more challenging experiences was learning how to live with not only a roommate, but eight other suitemates where there was no kitchen, no free laundry, and no privacy whatsoever. Surprisingly, it was great. Not do-it-again great, but it was appropriate for the time and situation. I learned to live without shame. For example, the journey to the laundry room could be a tricky mission. I had a strange paranoia that I would drop my underwear on the stairs without noticing on my way to the laundry room. That, in itself, wasn’t the terrible thought. What’s terrible is the return trip upstairs to see the fallen undies. Nobody wants to be the one to claim ownership. So, what do you do? Do you pick them up, chancing that someone will witness you plundering stray underwear from the ground? Or, do you leave them there, not only losing your drawers, but having to pass by them repeatedly until the laughing cleaning guy hoists them up with the end of his mop? I lost sleep over that for the first month of school; however, when I adopted the mentality that whatever doesn’t kill me will make a great story, I loosened up. I’m now known for sporting undergarments on my head and answering the door in a towel (sorry Crystal and Jeff…). I call that personal growth.

Isn’t growth exactly what first year is about? We learn that there are other people in the world besides us, and that they are nowhere near as judgmental as you think they’ll be. The first year of college is the formative time when you can free yourself from the shackles of parentally-instituted decorum, learn that no one will take care of you if you don’t take care of yourself, and find that a family isn’t necessarily the people related to you, but those who will be there to listen to your ridiculous stories and eat cheap pizza at 3:00AM , even if you do occasionally drop your underwear on the stairs

Careful! That Cheese is Sharp

I think there are very few people out there who have not been broken up with over something that seems unreasonable. If you haven’t yet, just wait. It’s like the chicken pox—the longer you ward it off, the worse it’ll be when you finally get yours. I sit with my friends for hours and hours discussing what might have been different if they had not gotten on the guy about leaving the seat up, scratching himself in front of Grandma, being the cheapest man alive or dead, or forgetting that they hate onions on a burger. What have I learned in my old age? Well, I’ve learned that nothing would have been different. The apocalypse was coming and you didn’t know when or where, but apparently the four horsemen dragged in a real doosey of a ridiculous argument that has nothing to do with the root of your relationship problems.

My dad has a friend who used to come home every night and slice a piece of cheese off of a block that was big even for a Costco purchase. When it got moldy, she just scraped away the mold and sliced more cheese, because that’s just what she did every night. One night she came home and looked in the fridge to find a void where there once was cheese. Her husband nonchalantly said he had thrown it away. She then packed her bags and left.

My friends, the cheese does not, in fact, stand alone. Hi-ho the dairy-o, the cheese comes with a whole platter of issues. When questioned why she would leave her husband over a block of moldy cheese, my dad’s friend rolled her eyes and sighed, “Pat, sometimes it’s not just about the cheese.” Like a lactose-intolerant friend of mine once claimed, the cheese broke her will to press on. It’s that one last issue, act, or argument that makes one up and leave. While it’s the last issue, it’s rarely the first. We can beat ourselves up over what might have been, but honestly, did you want what might have been to actually be? Despite the heinous break-up moment, the person pulling the trigger really is the savior. Just think, if you both stayed silent, you could be spending the rest of your life with someone who, if he doesn’t now, will never put the seat down, will never stop scratching himself in front of Grandma or even your pastor, will only become cheaper when he doesn’t need to impress you, and seriously, if he doesn’t remember now that you hate onions on your burger, he’ll forget more important things as well.

You, my dear, are also not without your faults. We, as women, nit pick. Stop. Don’t argue. This is a habit that, if unchecked, will eventually turn us into our mothers. In turn, this nit-picking is what crushes us for far longer than a guy in a break-up. We rehash, create alternate scenarios, and think of what we could have changed. But sometimes it’s not just about the cheese.

I’ve come away from college with only a few true lessons. 1. Dining hall trays make excellent make-shift sleds, as do Rubbermaid under-bed storage containers; 2. 19th Century British literature does not impress as many people as I feel it should; and 3. I make the same mistakes over and over. One of the mistakes is not looking at the big picture. Does it really take 12 years of boyfriends and pseudo-boyfriends to learn how to do this? I’m not sure yet. I haven’t quite mastered this ability. You can’t change who you are and how you deal with the majority of situations, but you can learn to let yourself go and accept that you are a whole person, not a list of transgressions in a relationship. Someday we all will find the other whole person who understands and appreciates us; the one who loves us and our moldy cheese.

Home Is Where the Fart Is

At the end of my 3rd year of college, I made a dramatic decision. I was ready for life on my own, or at least, on my own with my parents footing the bill. Unlike my sorority sisters who had begun to announce engagements and family plans for after graduation, I decided to, in essence, marry myself and engage in the ultimate test of one’s maturity and strong will: living alone. My parents had their concerns for my safety and about my potential loneliness, so they came down to Charlottesville to see the places I had chosen. The decision came down to a one-bedroom in an old building slightly away from the action on Grounds, or a brand-new one-bedroom beauty in an excellent location. Now, you’d think the decision would be simple, but there’s a catch. While we were able to walk through the former and visualize what my living situation would be like, the latter was only a concept and an artist’s rendition. After some convincing that this majestic domicile could be put up with no problem in what was then a small parking lot behind another building, I decided to take a gamble and sign a lease on my new, theoretical home: Apartment 401, Camden Plaza. Like parents who go on faith that a child will turn out as a positive mixture of their genes, I was confident that the description and the sketches of my new home would come together to be as wonderful as I hoped.

Two months after the proposed due date of August 28th, I was still sleeping on my friend’s futon and living out of a duffel bag. The contractor had fallen behind, but he eventually threw together a structure in the period between August and November. When the residents were allowed to move in, we noticed some…quirks. Our dear Camden Plaza, while attractive to the casual visitor, had troubles in its first year. One explanation is the apparent drinking that had gone on during the last trimester of construction, as I found a satisfyingly crushed Budweiser can lodged in my bathroom vent. The colicky fire alarm cried out night after night with piercing screams, barely letting us sleep. The slightest wisp of steam would wake it from silence and set it off again. The residents would stand outside late at night waiting for the fire department like embarrassed parents, knowing that our child’s shrieks were disturbing those around us once again. It took a few months of the contractor’s time for Camden Plaza to mature out of this period, but eventually “Cam” quietly passed the night in a less sensitive watchful rest.

It took me some time to decorate and arrange the furniture into the perfect reflection of myself. Eager to show off my long-awaited home, I invited some friends over for margaritas. The morning of my margarita party, I scrubbed my already sparkling apartment from top to bottom. The bathroom smelled of Summer Breeze Lysol, the mirrors shone, the floors spread in a crumbless expanse, and I was ready to spend the rest of the day sitting at my computer writing a paper. As I typed I heard the pipes in the building rumble. After living in a building that was still under construction for a few months, it didn’t faze Camden residents in the slightest to hear crashes, rumbles, and pile drivers throughout the day. I typed more and heard the rumble again, but this time closer. “Geez, Cam!” I called out. “Someone’s got gas today.” The noise sounded closer the next time and the thunderous growl came from the belly of the building up to what sounded like my apartment. As I sat outside the bathroom at my desk, I noticed that the smell of Summer Breeze Lysol was dwindling and slowly being replaced by a fouler, yet unidentifiable stench. “Lord almighty, Cam. That smell better not be you,” I muttered. In response, my toilet rattled. I got up to investigate. When I opened the bathroom door, I was hit with a tangy, eye-wateringly awful smell. “Oh my GOD!” I cried out, recoiling from the fumes. A gurgle from my bathtub drain caused me to throw back the curtain. I screamed and hastily returned the curtain to its former position. The entire bathtub had filled with the building’s raw sewage. What was I supposed to do? The toilet then shook. I cautiously stepped toward it and lifted the lid. Same fate as the tub. Now, what does one do in this situation? You can’t just roll it all up in a diaper and dispose of the contents of a building’s bowels. I scrambled for the scrap of paper with the leasing center’s phone number. When the receptionist answered the phone, I was almost offended by her nonchalant tone. What can she help me with? Are you kidding!
“There’s crap in my tub!”
“Excuse me?”
“Yeah, exactly! There are 4 inches of crap in my tub! Oh! And my toilet.”
“Oh my…where are you? I’ll send someone over in the next hour or so to take a look.”
“The next hour? Do you seriously understand what I’m saying?”

What do you do when your apartment building soils itself? You call Dad. It doesn’t matter than he’s 100 miles away. It’s an involuntary reaction. Once he stopped laughing he said, “Well, you should probably take the laundry out of your washer and also the dishes from the dishwasher.” What. “Well, the construction workers are pumping air in the pipes, you know. Waste doesn’t say, ‘Hey, I’ll make sure not to go into Kelly’s dishwasher.’ It goes where it can.”

After hours of terrible smells, a bleaching process, and giggling maintenance men, I felt as if I’d had enough of Cam’s antics. I called off the margarita party on account of noxious fumes and decided to spend the rest of the day away from the apartment. When I finally came home that night, I went to bed in peace, as the smell has dissipated—or at least I was finally immune to the smell. I would guess that parents eventually feel this way after being covered in unspeakable fluids, and that they either ignore the horror, or they accept that they, and all that is around them, will reek of the worst smells until the source matures and can hold its functions. When I laid down in bed, relieved that I had survived the whole ordeal, I drifted into a poopless dream, only to be jolted awake by the fire alarm. Apparently there is no rest for the weary.

Disney lied.

When I say that I’m dating a new guy, the first question my parents ask (well, first question after “He's not Catholic, is he?”) is, “Does he open the door for you?” Apparently this is my parents’ litmus test of a decent guy. For years I’ve fought with them, saying that they are out-of-touch with today’s world, solely out of embarrassment that my new guy did not, in fact, open doors for me; and as always, my parents are so annoyingly right. In actuality, most of my beaus have barged ahead and let a door slam in my face if I didn’t catch it soon enough. Luckily I have slowly acquired cat-like reflexes and can catch a door without any tongue clicking, head shaking old ladies noticing the etiquette transgression. It appears that girls and parents of girls have not yet gotten the memo that chivalry is dead. Gone are the days when society turns its collective nose up at the brutish young man. It’s almost celebrated among young guys today that they won’t do anything, pay for anything, or step out of their way for a girl.

I blame the girls in middle school who, out of impatience and eagerness for their male counterparts to mature, started calling guys and asking them out. All hail the empowered woman and equality, but come on, ladies; our awkward, middle school selves created monsters. And we didn’t even get a date to the 8th Grade Dinner Dance out of all that. Sigh.

I was walking to class at Mason last semester when I overheard an exchange up ahead. A girl, with her arms full of library books nearly dropped everything trying to catch a door slamming on her. “Whoa,” she said, “don’t worry, I’ve got it.” A guy turned around from his group, and in a thick New York accent scoffed, “Yeah, you thought I was going to hold that door for you, huh? Yeah? Well, homie don’t play that.” Well…“homie,” you must be single. There’s a difference in being a doormat and in being a polite, courteous citizen.

I have bad news, ladies. It appears that your White Knight isn’t going to ride up and take you to a land filled with glass slippers, frogs-turned-hot, and seven uniquely-personalitied dwarves to do your bidding. But, hey, that’s why we have college (or trust funds), the stock market, and nice cars of our own. That way, when your White Knight ends up riding up on a gimpy-legged donkey and admitting that he dropped a red sock in the wash with his white armor, you won’t feel so bad.

I believe I’m going to take it upon myself to be a modern-day Mary Poppins, and I shall go forth and teach all around me how to behave. I already have a penchant for giant purses. I’m sure I could pull something from one of them to knock some sense back into the world. It would be supercalifragilisticexpialidocious, to say the least.

Those of us in our twenties are still from a time when our mothers made us say the magic word (“please,” in case you’re rusty), tell little boys we hit that we’re sorry (even if we’re not and would do it again if he dared yank another pigtail), and write thank you notes to our relatives (Dear Grandma, Thank you for the ugly sweater that itches and takes two people to pull over my head. I will cherish it. Love, Kelly). It’s not too late to regain some order in this barbaric society. I may seem anal, and trust me, I am, but also know that there are other champions of my cause. You never know who's watching, and if I am, rest assured that I'll be there to shake my head and sigh in a resigned manner, "What would your mother say?"

The Hard Streets of Fairfax

Just one half of a neighborhood street holds almost all of my childhood memories. The better half (or, at least the hilly half) of Dansk Court not only had The Big Circle (known to arguably more sophisticated people as a cul-de-sac) but my best friend M.

Before M’s family moved in across the street, there was a lot of quality only-child alone time to be had. I was always content playing on my own, but one day the peaceful summer quiet was dreadfully interrupted. I had gotten brand new Fisher Price over-the-shoe roller skates for my 3rd birthday, and I loved them dearly; however, a 3-year-old doesn’t have the best balance ever. My mom solved this problem by getting me a 2-ft-long, ¼ inch diameter dowel from the craft store that was dubbed “Kelly’s Skating Stick.” I used my skating stick like a hiking stick, I guess, but regardless of how silly I must have looked, it did the trick. Well, one day I was happily shuffling around the driveway with my skating stick when, out of nowhere, the Doberman from two houses up came barreling down the hill at me and knocked me over. I was left with dirty Oshkosh B’goshes and skates in the air, wheels still rolling, silent, hardly knowing what to do. Obviously I cried after that pregnant pause. It was that day that I learned to fear dogs. Years later, our next-door neighbors had a wiener dog that they kept tied up outside, and I refused to walk on the same side of the street as that dog. You never knew what could happen if that vicious beast came untied.

Growing up, I spent a lot of quality time with the Stragands, our neighbors and my parents’ closest friends at the end of the street, who I remember best for always having Jell-O Pudding Pops. There are two stories that the Stragands still love to tell new neighbors at block parties—one of a memorable toddler rebellion and one tragic tale of my first big girl bike.

I think the only time before age 13 that I made my parents beyond furious was the Nasal Spray Incident. Mom and Dad were dressed up, ready to go out to dinner, and I was staying home with a sitter. Before leaving, my mom had sat me on the kitchen counter to give me a few squirts of nasal spray to alleviate whatever illness I may have had. I wasn’t having any of that. I pushed her away a few times, and once I realized that she was still persisting, I got the heck out of there. I shimmied off the counter and ran like my pants were on fire out the front door and down the street as fast as my 3-year-old legs would carry me, past the Stragands and my dad sitting on their porch, through the intersection, and down the other end of our street. It had only taken moments for Mom to fly through the front door, hot on my tail, delicately running in her heels. She was, as my grandma would say, “mad as hops.” My dad scooped me up and carried me flailing back to the house, plopped me on the counter, and said, “Now, Susan, this is how it’s done.” Not so much, Dad. I wouldn’t let him do it either, and he got so angry that he threw the nasal spray across the kitchen. Kelly: 1, Nasal Spray: 0.

Another time that all hell broke loose while my parents chilled on the Stragand's front porch was the demise of my first bike. I had spent many hours riding around The Big Circle on my pink-tired, training-wheel-bedecked first bike, which eventually resulted in a bald front tire with a node sticking out. On my bike’s final day, I rode it down the hill to the Stragand’s. I took a load off and had a puddin’ pop, and when we were done, my dad went to push my bike back up the hill. Unfortunately, he rolled that bulbous node over the pavement for it’s last time, and my pink tire popped. Obviously it was Daddy’s fault. It was even more Daddy’s fault when Toys ‘R Us didn’t carry pink tires to replace it with. I had to deal with white tires, and I was bitter forever after.

Luckily, before too much bitterness set in, M’s family moved in across the street. The first day I met him was Easter, when my mom forced me to share my gummy bears with him and his brother. M soon became my best friend. We watched Thundercats together, played He-Man and She-Ra, and made plans for the future. We told my dad one day that M and I were going to get married and live in my parents’ guestroom. He was going to beat up bad guys, and I was going to do all the cooking. Sounds like a plan. We spent our time playing outside, making forts with the boxes from his family’s new washer and dryer, and playing Legos in front of afternoon cartoons.

My first day of kindergarten, I wore a gigantic blue paper triangle on a string around my neck to denote that I was a part of the Blue Triangle table. This became a problem when I saw that M was wearing a huge red square around his neck. After kindergarten, M moved to a private school, and we started to drift apart as I met more of the little girls from school in our neighborhood. Boys suddenly got cooties, and it was way more fun to walk over to J’s house and play in her pool, or to play Barbies with K.

When M returned to public school, he was suddenly in a band and was a stud in all the other girls’ eyes. We didn’t hang out anymore, and I think it’s because, at least on my part, he was still M, my future husband and the little boy whose parents took us all to see “An American Tail” for his 5th birthday. Friendships may fade, but memories don’t, and it’s hard to shake off what you knew of someone to let in who they now are. M's family has moved away, I no longer live at home, and The Big Circle has been devoid of children who know it's proper name for years now. Let's just hope they learn that the best sledding is not on our hill, but in The Pit at the other end of Dansk Court, that you can cut through to 4 other neighborhoods on your bike if you look hard enough for the trail, and that the cemetery our neighborhood backs up to really is haunted...according to the older kids.

Carbon-14 Dating

I’m having my quarter-life crisis early, it seems. I’m at a crossroads of desperately trying to regain my recently-lost youth and being a big girl. When I go to the mall, I suddenly feel frumpy next to the svelte 17-year-olds shopping at Forever 21 and Abercrombie. Although I wish I still looked like them and still had their responsibility-free lives, I’m starting to realize the merits to being 23, which, as Jessica Simpson said, is “almost 25, which is almost mid-twenties.” And everyone knows that those in their mid-twenties have it all figured out, are dating someone seriously, or they have Tiffany settings so massive that they can barely lift their young-professional left fourth fingers.

There are 3 types of males that can be logged at the quarter-life: the guy who just wants to hook up, the one who’s messing with your head, and the guy who’s looking for a wife. Any girl who went to college knows how to deal with the first type, and almost appreciates the familiarity that the situations with these gentlemen bring. We know exactly what to expect, exactly what he’s thinking, and exactly what he’s going to say, and we accept or reject…no gray area here.

Although those in the group of head messers are the most hurtful to us, they are far and away the most important people we will meet. I’m not going to limit this category to just guys; almost every girl has entered this category at some point too. These are the people we learn the most from. Everyone has had one of these, and has looked back and said, “What was I thinking?” Anyone, no matter how good-looking, smart, or cool they are can act as this type. They become a pure emotion to you, and exist not as a person with strengths and faults that you see in a realistic way, but as an entity that represents something to you. Eventually they’ll become a walking, talking symbol of your own stupidity. I’m a total glutton for punishment, so I’ve had an overwhelming number of these guys in my life. I figure I’m the guinea pig for my group of girls, and what doesn’t kill me makes me better at giving advice to others that I am not yet smart enough to follow myself. Bottom line: if someone wants something (you, namely) badly enough, they’ll find a way to get it. My mom said that. I hate when my mom is right. I’m sure you think I’ll now reference the Sex and the City episode that said “he’s just not that into you, it’s that simple.” You’re right. I just snuck it in (little known fact—snuck is not a real word). And it’s true. The sign of maturity at your quarter life is to recognize these people as a learning experience, material for your next novel, or as an example of what you should not do to others. Recognizing this is the easy part. Maybe at my half life I’ll actually put my own advice into practice. But, I digress.

The final and by far most disturbing classification is the uncharted territory of the looking-for-a-wife type. This type did not exist at UVA, so we’re left defenseless to their seemingly-charming wiles. There are two subsets of this breed: those who want you to settle down and stop drinking so much darn Jager and those who already settled down once before, have since unsettled, and want you to settle for them. Are you ready to become a country club wife before the other side of 25? Great! Do you still have some party left in you? Run! The first subset tends to be older and has already lived the glory days that you have not quite finished. They don’t mean harm, I promise. You just need to take responsibility for living your life to what you deem to be the fullest.

The second subset, also known as “damaged goods” is one that should be avoided. Anyone can fall prey to these guys, because they are super-tricky. One guy casually said to me, “So, do you like kids?” I said yes without thinking deeply into it. Turns out that “do you like kids” is code for “I have (1+) kids or will have (1+) kids in 9 months or less. Do you prefer ‘Replacement Mommy’ or ‘Daddy’s Special Friend’?” For the love of cupcakes, guys! What makes me look like a good choice for a mom right now? In just the last year, I’ve run down a beach naked for no good reason, considered soft tacos to be a major food group, and hugged my teddy bear with fiercer intensity than my boyfriend.

Dating at the quarter-life changes drastically from what it had been before. I’ve reached a zen-like state of calm where I’ve realized that I don’t have to do anything. I don’t have to stand and talk to someone. I don’t have to go on that second date. I was talking to a guy who seemed reasonably nice, smart, and good looking while Mehrnaz and I were out in Arlington one night. Everything was cool until he said, “Yeah, and in my Match.com profile…” I’d tell you more of what he said, but it was right then that I thought I had hallucinated for a second, and I stopped paying attention. I quickly realized that, no, no hallucinations, he really said “Match.com profile.” I turned to him and stammered, “Hey, I’ll be right back, I need to…um…*shifty eyes*…bye.” I disappeared into the crowd with very little guilt. My new mantra is “he’ll live.” And he will. I’m not trying to be mean here, guys. But really, what’s the point of continuing a conversation, dating, and everything in between if you’re just not that into it? See, there’s that logic again.

Now, I’m far from a feminist, and may the sweet baby Jesus help you if you ever call me a liberal, but my 5-year plan does not involve a husband. After graduation, my dad said, “Alright, honey, you’ve dumped Al (a lawyer), and that’s all well and good, but how are you going to have the lifestyle you’ve grown so accustomed to?” I rolled my eyes and said, “Oh, Daddy, please. I have a college degree, good friends, and my whole life ahead of me. I don’t need a man to support me…I have you.” A few months and about two paychecks later, I realized that I have myself. And my daddy for backup. Come on, let’s not be rash here. But that state of independence is the very basis of quarter-life dating. It’s like deciding on a new pair of shoes. You know you don’t need them to survive, but you ask yourself if you want them and would continue to enjoy them next season. So, here's to the quarter life, the wrinkle cream I just bought, and the hope for full maturity by my half-life crisis.

And baby makes three

From the start, you can tell who's in control in our little family. My dad wanted to name me Jennifer or Kimberly, but my mom hid my birth certificate in her hospital drawer until my dad left for coffee and scribbled in "Kelly" instead. She's always been my buddy. Mom stayed home with me growing up, and I credit her for my turning out okay. Whatever we did in those early years must have been intellectually stimulating, because my first sentence was the astute observation, "My daddy eats ham." Genius.

We used to have a cat, Muffin (Muffy) Vandersluis, who while she was loved dearly, met an untimely and unintentional death. Muffy was known for being a trouble maker, as she couldn't resist knocking down Christmas trees and otherwise wreaking havoc on the house. One Christmas was apparently the last straw with Muffy. She not only knocked down the Christmas tree again, but she decided that the tinsel looked particularly tasty. My parents learned an important science lesson later that day: tinsel does not break down in a cat's stomach. Poor Muffy ended up running around the house in a panic with a few inches of tinsel hanging out of her rear. Something had to be done; and when something has to be done, you call in my dad. He pinned Muffy down, braced himself, and yanked the tinsel out of her. That caused a horrifyingly unnatural cat noise, "MRRRRRAAAAAAAAOOOOOW!" but she felt better moments later. My parents, however, did not feel better. They decided that it was time for her to find a new home with another family's tinsel to eat. They took her to Happy Meadows Catland where they promised to care for her and to find her a new home. Not long after doing so, the Washington Post reported that Happy Meadows Catland had gone bankrupt and gassed the kitties. Rest in peace, Muffy.

If you have witnessed my parking abilities, you will not be surprised that problems with depth and height perception run in my family. As a toddler, my dad had me on his shoulders, joyously gallivanting around our house. It was naptime, so he took me up to my room and did not account for the fact that: (HeightDaddy - Head) + HeightKelly > HeightDoor. He smacked my head on the door, and I'm sure that all hell broke loose after that. Physics seemed to be a problem too, as one day my dad took me out in my stroller and swung me around in it (whee!) and I flew out. Objects in motion stay in motion. Important lesson. You'll be disturbed to know that my dad has advanced degrees in science.

I was a pretty durable kid, which comes as a surprise since I stopped drinking milk at 5 when my dad told me it was cow pee. I used to let it sit untouched all through dinner, trying to out-stubborn my parents. They'd finally get up, and I'd pour it down the drain. I wasn't too smart then, so I didn't rinse out the sink after doing so and they found out. I was finally relieved of my milk-drinking responsibilities when we stopped at Denny's on a trip, and my milk came out chunky and yellowed. I have not had a glass of milk in 18 years, and I'm still in one piece. I reject the theory that milk does a body good.

My family is so wholesome that it would really make you gag. We're Southern Baptist and can Bible verse you at will if you begin to get out of line. Growing up, I was never allowed to say "sucks" or "fart" (excuse me) but for some reason "crap" has always been acceptable. Must be in the Bible somewhere. But let me tell you, if I were to transgress and say any forbidden word, you better believe that my mom would hear it from 2 floors away with her bionic mom ears and yell, "Kelly Susanne!!!" We never believed in intercoms. We had an intercom system for a short period of time, but it crossed with our neighbors' that we never actually liked, and since that would have meant some form of talking to them, we got rid of the intercom. The common belief seems to be that God gave all three of us ample lungs and voices, so instead of using technology to communicate, or walking to find the person, we bellow, or holler even. Sometimes full conversations were held at top volume from 1 and 2 levels apart.

My parents were always fun when I lived with them, but I think they saved their best stuff for when I left for school and moved out. Just in the last year their antics have moved from quirky to just plain ridiculous. 4th year, my mom and I were talking on the phone and she said, "Oh, geez, that's like the time your father drove the car off the cliff and nearly killed us." What? Apparently they were looking at new homes and went to check out one that was still under construction. Dad overshot the driveway and ended up hanging off the edge of a steep drop-off. They stayed in the car not moving until a tow truck came to save them. They were unscathed, but learned not to be so adventurous.

The same year, my dad called me laughing, and said, "Haha...your mom...hahaha, oh, man...she put her foot through the wall." Again, what? He can't stop laughing and in the background I hear, "PAAAAAAAT!" Well, mom was on the treadmill and something happened, so she shot off the back and punched her foot through the wall. She got stuck there with the treadmill still on scraping her knees. I think my dad was kind enough to turn off the treadmill before calling me. There was a hole in the wall for a while, and it might still be there behind the new dresser they put in the same place. Who knows.

I realize everyday that I've grown more and more like my parents. Crazy mom-isms like, "Quick like a bunny" and "Well, that doesn't amount to a hill of beans" sneak out every so often, and I actually uttered the phrase, "Doesn't that seem a little revealing, honey?" about something I would have worn less than a year ago. I eat Cheerios straight out of the box (no milk), and I'm on a first name basis with the cleaning lady at work, just like my dad. I figure, if I'm going to become something, a hybrid of my parents isn't too shabby.

"From curls to pearls, we're still our daddies' little girls"

In October of 1981, God smiled down on Fairfax, Virginia, and I was born. I grew to love strained carrots, Cheerios, and boxes. All the mainstays of a toddler's life. I was always an indulged child, and since I loved those Gerber strained carrots so much, my mom couldn't stand to deprive me. I turned orange, and she rushed me to the pediatrician thinking I was diseased. He said to lay off the carrots and all would be well. Everything's okay now. I've lost my lust for carrots, and I've returned to a less intense shade of peach.

At 2, I almost died. My friend K decided that he'd had enough of me when we were playing, and he tried to hit me over the head with a fish bowl. Luckily I have a hard head, and our parents were nearby. K ended up being a mild-mannered guy and has not tried to kill anyone since age 2, as far as I know.

At 3, my goals in life were to either be a princess or to work at Hallmark. Back then things were simple. I was a mini fashionista, my best friend was Teddy (Theodore E. Bear, to be exact), and my hero was a mentally-constructed cross between Barbie, She-Ra, Smurfette, and Lion-o from the Thundercats.

In kindergarten, I had my first boyfriend, J. He irritated the hell out of me because he always wanted to sit together and get the same kind of milk as me for snack time. On the bus home, kids used to sing, "J and Kelly sitting in a tree...k-i-s-s-i-n-g..." It honestly pushed me to my 5-year-old wit's end because I heartlessly dumped him. I think that relationship set my pattern for the next 18 years. I'm sure he's over it by now. His family moved to Culpepper, Virginia, which, until I drove to UVA 13 years later, I thought was some mystical place that didn't really exist. Kind of like what I thought Tappahannock, Virginia was when I was 21.

The first time I ever got in trouble was in 4th grade when I wrote on the bathroom wall. I won't tell you what I wrote, but it got me in a lot of trouble. No swear words or anything...come on, I was 9. I think that can be cited as the point when I became a closet trouble maker. In 6th grade, my 'tude started to show a little more. My friends L and A and I found the sex ed video Dr. D's Birds and the Bees to be extraordinarily funny. Why? PENIS. Yeah, that word is still funny even at 23. I was the one who got kicked out of the classroom while L and A stayed. I sat in the hallway with the 2 boys who had gotten kicked out of their respective classroom during the same video. It was a crucial moment too, because the kids in the video had yet to cross the Bridge of Puberty. I long to know what's on the other side of that bridge.

Later in 4th grade, I changed classes after writing on the wall (but not because of it), and I met H, who ended up being my good friend all these years later. She came to my birthday party and we gorged ourselves on jelly beans, swearing we'd never again eat them. I'm actually eating jelly beans out of my Easter basket right now, so I guess that solemn swear meant nothing to me. H and I went though a lot together in the years after 4th grade. We pioneered the Clueless-inspired short skirt and knee sock look in 8th grade, survived "dates" with guys at the Fairfax Ice Arena (I swear it was the cool thing to do at 14), both got B+'s in chorus class for talking too much and partaking too much "sass back" to our interim choir director, and forever scarred her brother by scattering his tightie-whities all over his room. Luckily their mom had done laundry the day before, so there were plenty to scatter.

The freedom of high school- no more assigned lunch seats, cars, dreams of college- led to adventures where we got in trouble, adventures where we never got caught, too many memories, and too few pictures. Life was filled with cheerleading, shopping, and skipping school to tan at Burke Lake (sorry, Mom). H and I became friends with D and S who taught us the fine art of setting stuff on fire just because and sneaking out (sorry again, Mom); I ran over a tree at 16, but I maintain that Lexus made a faulty car, and I was an innocent victim (sorry, Daddy); C and I decided we were "so over" Woodson guys and discovered that Lake Braddock and PVI were amazing resources for fresh hotties; A could always be counted on for a shopping trip when we were stressed or some comic relief from intense competition practices before districts; and C and I have some real stories about dating college guys when you're just a kid of 17.

To anyone who is not from Fairfax and lives here now complaining of nothing to do, well, you're just not looking hard enough. If you haven't visited Bunnyman Bridge in the middle of the night during the summer, you've missed out. It was way scarier back in Freshman year when the bridge was spray painted with "Bunny Back for Blood," and there weren't cameras and cops lurking, but you'll get the idea. I peed my pants, not much, but enough to count, one night when we were down there Freshman year. C and I had made friends with a Senior because he had a car. He drove us there, stopped the car under the bridge (which is required of all guys trying to scare girls there), and yelled, "Oh my God!" I screamed, "BUNNY!" and proceeded to trickle a little. C says she didn't, but she so did too. If you haven't been to Clifton and raced down the country (well, as country as it gets in Fairfax) roads, you're missing out as well. Take some time to go do that and pull the E-brake for me. Doesn't get much better.

C once said, "The world will end if you don't cheer in college. I swear it will." Maybe that would have been so. Who knows. I got accepted to UVA in November of Senior year- which is lucky since it's the only school I applied to- and I tried out for UVA cheerleading...and the rest is history. Head injuries, extra laps for being late, disastrous pyramids, and all. The idea of leaving all that we had even known cast a dark pall over the Class of 2000. Most of us had known each other since elementary school, and now we were supposed to be okay with spreading out across the country?

I remember the night before H left for school so clearly that I can't believe it was so many years ago. We sat in my car over in Fair Lakes listening to Nelly not knowing what to say other than "thank God we're only 45 minutes away from each other!" No matter how close our schools were, it didn't compare to "4 minutes exactly if you don't stop before turning right on red onto Burke Station." There would be fewer adventures, and so much less would be exciting and taboo as we got older and learned more about people and the world.

H and I have the kind of friendship where, no matter how far we are from each other or how long it's been since we last talked, things will always be the same. She's still the girl who I can rap every word of Snoop's Doggy Style album with and who thinks farting is as funny as I do. I've lost touch with a lot of the others, but I know time with C would be just as awesome as 5 years ago, I have faith that A is still as beautiful as ever, C probably made it to Boston and is selling her own fashions, and the rest of the Woodson cheerleaders are alive and well somewhere out there.