An Ex Playlist

I don't know about you, but I tend to associate certain events, periods, people, etc. in my life with certain music. For instance, Maps is always going to be that song that I played driving through my Provo neighborhood during that last summer of college with my windows rolled down whilst singing at the top of my lungs. And anything by Regina Spektor (among many other things) is going to take me back to when I was dating and falling in love with the Gregory.

To add humor to my nostalgia, I thought it would be an interesting exercise to comb through my (short) list of exes (not to mention a few guys I sincerely thought about dating then decided against it, along with some ex-crushes, so it's not five songs long) and create a playlist of sorts. All parties have been given a pseudonym to protect the innocent. (Or the not-so-innocent. Ahem.)

And may I just add that some of these are thoroughly embarrassing... so no judging, mmk pumpkins?

Here we go...

Lead Singer: Faith - Limp Bizkit
Aqua Di Gio: Stellar - Incubus 
Captain of the Football Team: I Wanna Be With You - Mandy Moore
The Bad Boy: It's Over Now - 112
The Cheater: Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead [See also: In Da Club - 50 Cent]
The Outdoorsman: Like a Stone - Audioslave
Mr. Iteration: Can U Handle It? - Usher [See also: Naughty Girl - Beyonce]
The Deadbeat: Sweetness - Jimmy Eat World
This Guy: Run It - Chris Brown
The Jogging Hipster: Dear John - Ryan Adams and the Cardinals (featuring Norah Jones) [See also: Ring of Fire - Johnny Cash]
This Guy: 7 Days - Craig David [See also: Craig David, and more Craig David]
The Mentor: Too Young - Junior Boys

[Post Script: A lot of these are pretty darn ironic if you think about it. Just saying...]

Because there are so few smashing couples these days

I hope you will indulge me as I take a break from the present, and wax a little nostalgic. 

A couple of years ago, I compiled a book for my parents' anniversary that basically told their "story." (That's where I finally got a hold of my favorite image of them on their wedding day, which can be seen here.)

While I was searching for photos to include, I came across some amazing photos of my mom's parents. You know, Peesh and the Colonel.

I mean, these two are just classy my friends. Old school glamour at its finest.

I am kind of really obsessed with all of these photos. Doesn't Peesh have fabulous style? And the Colonel! So dashing. They are my inspiration in many ways. The best grandparents a girl could ask for.

And just for fun, I included a photo of me and the grandparents from back in the day, amongst all of my boy cousins. I was the first granddaughter, after all. Something that my baby and I share.

Speaking of which, I think there's a bit of a resemblance between my daughter and me in the above photo.

What do you think?

A blast from the past...

My recent post about vampires and a random tweet from Stephen Colbert that I happened upon (whilst Tweeting for work) got me to thinking about things from my childhood that I was absolutely obsessed with. And that I still think are kinda sorta incredible. Here goes...

Jem and the Holograms

Jem is perhaps my favorite thing to emerge from the glorious 80s. Jem was the pink haired alter-ego of Jerrica, just your average owner/manager of a music company. With the help of Synergy, a holographic computer, Jerrica turned into Jem. (You know, when she'd touch her red star earring and say, "It's showtime, synergy.") Jem's boyfriend's name was Rio. He had purple hair. (Sexy, right?) I had two Jem dolls, one of which had earrings that lit up. (Why, oh why, did I give them away? Whoever scored those at the DI should write me a thank you note, since these dolls are pretty much impossible to find.)  I also had a Roxy doll. (Seriously, who came up with all of these incredible 80s names?) She was my favorite member of The Misfits, the band that was the Holograms' arch-nemesis. So how can you lose, really? Here's a delightful little preview of the amazingness that is Jem:

I'm tempted to purchase these just for posterity purposes. And kicks and giggles of course.

She-Ra, Princess of Power

Along with my penchant for pink hair and the musical goodness of the 80s, I also loved a certain sister of He-Man. Oh yeah, I'm talking about She-Ra, Princess of Power. I totally had a She-Ra action figure... but maybe I went hair cutting happy on her and she ended up kinda bald. My bad.

Since Greg was a huge He-Man fan I suggested we procure the magical goodness of the He-Man/She-Ra movie, "The Secret of the Sword"... but he said You Tube should suffice. And let's be honest, that would totally be nerdy. Which is probably why I still want it.











The Baby-Sitters Club

By far my favorite series as a youngster, The Baby-Sitters Club produced my very first idol, Stacey McGill. Probably because she had a perm and was from New York. Because that's where the Yankees are. And it's a place of awesomeness. I'm also quite sure my love for large words began with these books. Ann M. Martin would always throw in words like "monotonous" or "unscrupulous" in her seemingly simple prose, and for that, I will be forever grateful. I used to own them all (well, up to about #100) but gave most of them away. I just unearthed a box of the ones I kept though, safe from the clutches of the DI.

I suppose I could also mention how I used to wish I was Cheetara from the Thundercats, but I think this post is already pretty geektastic, so I think I will leave it at that. What did you love as a child?

Weirdo Protocol

----- Original Message -----
From: J--
To: S--; L--
Sent: Mon May 19 14:59:31 2008
Subject: weirdo protocol

I was thinking maybe we should come up with a protocol for events
similar to today. Any initial thoughts?

-----Original Message-----
From: S--
Sent: Monday, May 19, 2008 3:09 PM
To: J--; L--
Subject: Re: weirdo protocol

Shotgun

[Thanks for the giggle, J. You brightened my day.]

On days like today, I really miss the "Consplorer"

One of the most generous gifts I have ever received from anyone was the car I drove in college. In high school, I had the privilege of driving a fabulously champagne Geo Prism, which I reluctantly had to relinquish to my younger sister when I began college. Though I lived on campus, I worked off campus-- way off campus-- and this fact presented problems as I tried to navigate the P-town public transit system. There was a bus stop right by my work... but the bus only ran once every hour and would stop running before some of my shifts were over.

In the mean time, my grandpa, "The Colonel," decided to buy a new car. Now this was in event in of itself because The Colonel is legendary for his prowess in mechanics. I don't think he ever bought a car brand new; rather, he would buy a quality car and keep it alive for years. (And I mean YEARS.) At the time, he was driving a 1992 Ford Explorer (affectionately deemed "The Consplorer") that was rocking 100 thousand miles plus. Consequently, when he decided to buy a new vehicle, he also decided that his precious "Consplorer" would go to me.

I can't tell you what an absolute godsend this vehicle was to me. It took me to and from work. It helped me move from apartment to apartment. It had wicked bass. (And I love me lots of bass.) It nursed a broken heart and hosted copious amounts of introspection. But, more than that, the Consplorer represented the complete selflessness of my grandparents. They recognized that I had a need, and they lovingly filled that need. And I, in turn, appreciated and loved that car so much. I loved the fact that it still smelled like my grandpa's cologne for about a year. I loved that its 4 wheel drive saved me from many dicey situations at Point of the Mountain.

When the time came for us to go our separate ways, I was quite sad. And though I so love my Lola... on a wintry day like today... I miss the Consplorer.

Rollin' in the Con, circa 2005

The reason why I have an aversion to vollyball nets

goes back almost 15 years, when, at the tender age of ten, I had a "run-in" of sorts with a certain volleyball net.

But let me back up a bit.

I was pretty much a girly-girl when I was little, and really, REALLY wanted to get my ears pierced. So my parents decided that I could get them pierced on my 10th birthday. When the auspicious day arrived, we went to Trolley Square and ate at Charlie Chow's (my favorite at the time) and got my ears pierced. I was absolutely ecstatic

A month or so later, we were having an extended family party to celebrate the April/May/June birthdays. It was held outside at a park, and after dinner and cake we all decided to play volleyball. Though I was, at the time, a girly-girl, I was also quite competitive.

I was playing on the front line (sorry if there's more of a technical volleyball term for it) right next to the net. A ball was coming at me, and I jumped up to hit it over the net.

And then I was caught.

I thought that perhaps I had caught my hair or a piece of clothing in the net, and wrenched around to pull myself off of it.

And then there was pain. And blood.

Because the thing that I had caught on the net was the month-old stud earring in my left ear. When I pulled myself away from the net, it ripped the earring out of my ear backwards, leaving a stud-sized hole in my ear. Luckily, my studs were pretty small (as were my earlobes) and so my mom just disinfected my ear and put the earring back in it. We also kept a constant eye on it to make sure it didn't get infected.

In time, my ear healed, though the hole in my left ear was quite low on my lobe, due to the fact that the weight of my stud set my "new" earring hole at the bottom of the bigger hole I had created when my stud was ripped out. There was no way to hold the stud in place to heal in a way that aligned with the original hole.

Which I didn't mind until I was 15, when my parents (finally) gave me permission to get a second hole piercing in my ears. I just wanted a second hole in my left ear, and not my right (because back then, that whole asymmetrical thing was totally in, I promise), which caused a bit of a problem because my first hole was so low. So they had to re-pierce my ear so that the second hole would be in line with the first hole. Thus, I had my left ear double-pierced that day.

That's the reason why I have three holes in my left ear. Shrug.

Moral of the story: don't wear earrings when you're playing volleyball.

The Tale of Two Brothers, Part Two

{Missed part one? Read it here.}

May 2002

Two months had passed, and the feelings of ickiness and annoyance that were a product of the aforementioned occurrence finally began to subside. In the mean time, one of my friends decided to befriend Dave's little brother, "Glen," who happened to be a year younger than us.

I was fine with it, because Glen seemed nice and sweetly shy, and I was not going to begrudge him for something his older brother had done. It is important to note, too, that during this time I was not as involved with my typical group of friends, for various reasons too convoluted to discuss here, though I will say that I was studying a lot more and focusing on college applications and whatnot. Among other things. Thus, I knew Glen even less that I had known his older brother. (This is important to know because of what happened next.)

My 18th birthday fell on a Sunday that year, and my whole extended family was over at the house for a birthday dinner. The house phone rang, and it was for me. (Which was odd, since most of my friends called my cell.)

I was even more surprised to discover that Glen was on the other line. He wished me a happy birthday, and said that he had something for me and wondered if he could stop by for a minute and give it to me. In my mind I thought that perhaps Dave felt bad about "the incident" and wanted to send his brother over as a gesture of kindness. Or something like that.

I couldn't think of another explanation.

I hesitated, just because I had all of my family over, but he seemed so insistent, that I said he could drop by for just a quick minute. Soon after, the doorbell rang, and there was Glen, standing there with a plate of brownies.

Glen: "Happy Birthday, Lauren. I made these brownies for you."

Me: (surprised, but flattered) "Well thanks Glen, that was really nice of you to do."

Glen: "I just wanted to do something for your birthday." (His expression turns slightly mischievous... where had I seen that expression before?) "Actually, I have another present for you, but it's down at my car. Will you walk down the driveway to come and get it?"

{My "uh oh" alarm decided to malfunction I think, because in that moment, it FAILED me. Miserably.}

We walked down my hill of a driveway to his car. I looked inside it expectantly, not knowing what exactly Glen had in store for me. I should have just stayed inside my house. There's a long pause, and then Glen begins to stammer...

Glen: "So... 18... that's a big one. Do you feel old?"

Me: (at this point super confused) "Um, not really. Pretty much the same as I felt at seventeen."

Glen: "And you're graduating and stuff in a few days... that's pretty cool."

Me: (wanting to get on with it and go back inside) "Um yeah. Sure. Glen--"

Glen: (interrupting me) "So I bet you're wondering what you're present is."

{Um no, I just left my family party and am standing out here with a person I barely know just for kicks and giggles.}

Glen: "Well, I was just wondering if I could give you a birthday kiss."

{Holy heck are you kidding me? He must be joking. Except this really isn't funny. Like not even the littlest bit... NOT AGAIN.}

Me: (equal parts flabbergasted and annoyed and completely unsure of what to do) "Well um, gee, I guess you could give me a nice kiss on the cheek. I think that would be a great present." {And yeah, that's all I could come up with. You try being put on the spot like that.}

Glen: (looking dejected... whispers) "It wouldn't be the same."

{ARE. YOU. SERIOUS?}

Me: "Um well... I think I should probably head back up to my family party. Er... thanks for the brownies. They look delicious." {Never ate one, btw.}

Glen stays silent... then, as I am turning to leave...

Glen: "Now me and my brother have something in common... we've both been rejected by you."

I decided not to answer him. I think all I could muster was a polite head nod. Because at this point the awkwardness that had just transpired was beginning to hit me. I headed up the driveway and didn't look back.

In the days that followed, there was a rumor that Dave had put his brother up to it, that there was a bet of some sort. Which really irked me. I mean, I'm not a piece of meat, people! I politely tried to avoid Glen during the last week of school, mainly because my feelings were hurt at the idea that people would make me the source of such a cruel joke. You know, it's high school, people can be kind of ruthless.

At any rate, I felt it best not to deny him on yearbook signing day, when he meekly approached me and asked if he could sign my yearbook.

I believe in his yearbook all I could muster was "Have a great summer. -Lauren" without my typical heart and a slash, because I wouldn't want him to get the wrong idea. I actually shut my yearbook after he signed it, not wanting to read what he wrote right away. I did offer him as genuine of a smile as I could muster, because I was trying to just be nice and move on. Despite the awkwardness that permeated my being. {Because I was really quite sensitive to awkwardness back then, just fyi.}

Later that day, I came across his message, and was dismayed to read:

"There wasn't a bet. I just plain wanted to kiss you."

And that, my friends, is The Tale of Two Brothers.

The Tale of Two Brothers, Part One

I think I have mentioned before that in high school I did not date a lot. I did not kiss many boys, and I believe that I was altogether oblivious (my little sister affectionately referred to it as "the social skills of an eleven year old") to boys who liked me, or maybe just the ones who wanted to kiss me. (For as you know, in high school, these categories don't always jibe.)

At any rate, I will begin this story in the spring of 2002, not even a week after I had gotten my wisdom teeth (all of which were impacted, might I add) pulled. Since my mother had hidden my Loritab after I had taken exactly one pill, I believe I just may have been hopped up on 200 mg pills of Ibuprofen and had barely began attempting to eat solid foods again. "Attempting" being the operative word here. Why I am providing this little aside will become known shortly. Oh yeah, and the names have been changed in this story to protect the not-so-innocent.

It was a Friday night, and my parents were away for the weekend in New York with my little sister; thus, I was in charge of watching my little brothers until their return. I had a few friends over, which consisted of girls my own age and the remnants of our older guy friends who hadn't yet left on missions for our church. Since I was still feeling a bit woozy and tired from all that wisdom tooth extracting, we ended the night early... probably around 10:00-10:15.

So I was surprised when, about ten minutes later, there was a knock on my door. It was "Dave," one of the guys in our little group of friends that I didn't know super well, but well enough to let him inside for a drink because he was panting like a dog.

Me: (thoroughly taken aback) "Hey Dave, how's it going?"

Dave: (panting profusely) "I'm good."

Me: "Sorry, everyone's already taken off tonight." Dave looks a bit dejected, yet inexplicably smug. "May I ask why you're breathing so hard?"

Dave: "Oh, I rode my bike up here. That's why it took so long for me to get here." {His house is forever away and completely downhill from where I lived. And I thought it was odd he hadn't caught a ride from our other friend who lives down the street from him.}

Me: "Well sorry you missed the party {I'm a tad concerned because he looks like he's about to pass out}... do you want a glass of water or something before you head back home?"

Dave: "Sure. That'd be great."

He comes in and sits on a chair opposite from where I had been sitting/reading/watching TV, and I get up to get him a glass of water. After I bring it to him, he gulps it down and takes the cup back to the kitchen... and comes back and practically sits on my lap. It is at this point where the "uh-oh alarm" begins to sound in my head.

Dave: (who is now definitely in my personal bubble, much to my dismay) "So there's a reason I'm here so late. I actually wanted to get here after everybody left."

Me: (gulping whilst trying to politely inch away from him) "Oh really. And why would that be?" {Remember, social skills of an eleven year old. My much older and wiser self most likely would have never let him in the door in the first place.}

Dave: "Well I just really wanted to see if I could, you know, like kiss you."

Me: (completely at a loss of what to say/do/think coupled with being entirely creeped out) "Um, well I just got my wisdom teeth out... and I still have the stitches in my mouth... and aren't you leaving on your mission in a week... so yeah, um, and I'm pretty tired... you know... and maybe you should take off." {This was my polite way of saying "HELL no." Just fyi.}

Dave leaves, and though I am relieved at my aversion of what would have inevitably been a gross-out situation, I couldn't help being a bit angered by his audacity. I mean, he was leaving in a week for a two-year, absolutely no contact with girls, mission and was trying to get some while he still could. I thought it was pretty insulting. So did my girl friends once they heard about the story.

Luckily, I did not see him again before he left. And I tried to put the awkward and unsavory experience out of my head.

But little did I know that I would soon be reminded of this occurrence in a most unexpected way.

To be continued...

Expression

Ever since I can remember, I've always loved ballet, and dance in general. Perhaps one of the reasons is because I began going to see Ballet West perform at the tender age of three. Even then, the beauty and grace of movement utterly transfixed me... and still does to this day.

image: © Pascal Molliere

When I was young, I was in a dance class for awhile. I enjoyed it, but became distracted by other, more childish things. So I quit for awhile to pursue other interests. Then, when I was about eleven or twelve, I really wanted to dance again. I enrolled in a dance class with some friends and enjoyed it... but I had become too self-conscious of my body movement, of the thought of people watching me. I convinced myself that I was not good enough to dance... something that was cemented in my brain after trying out for a competitive dance school and not making it. I think my shyness prevented me from letting my body just feel the movement. Perhaps I should have kept at it, but I simply let my dream blur into the background.

At times I get frustrated because I cannot express myself in this way, through this form. Sometimes I ardently wish that I had never quit dancing and worked harder, etc. But, in all honestly, I don't think my body was blessed with the natural inclination to dance (though, I will say that a former college roommate who was a modern dancer said I had amazing turn out, te hee). My sister seemed to be endowed with all abilities athletically based, and where her body was graceful and strong, mine was more awkward and stiff. Some of this, I am certain had to do with our personalities. (For she had no fear and I feared everything.)

But something hit me today. Something that I hadn't really thought about before. There is a part of my body that was meant to dance, the only part that was blessed with a natural inclination for movement and form...

my fingers.

It's a gift I have unfortunately taken for granted, one that I hope I can somehow reclaim. You see I began piano lessons at the age of six. And it was something that I stuck with, throughout my childhood and adolescence. My fingers have truly danced over the keys... communicating Beethoven's Pathetique and Moonlight Sonatas... pieces by Mozart, Chopin and Bach. It was the only time throughout my "shy years" where I could fully express myself to others.

At times I feel that I did not properly appreciate this gift. And as my fingers have sat idle for so long, there are times when they long for the cold contact of piano keys... for the freeing movement of a technically proficient piece. They long for the ability to express the feelings and thoughts of their proprietor.

This is my dance. And this is where I find joy. I only hope I haven't lost it forever.

A big rock and my first kiss

Since I seem to be a glutton for punishment in the embarrassing stories/moments department, I'm going to hit you guys with another lovely gem from my HUGE embarrassing stories vault as a weekend treat. A special thanks to Chel, who reminded me of this horror and requested that it make an appearance on this hallowed blog.

First the background to the story...

It was the summer after my Sophomore year in high school, and my dear friend Kate was hanging out with a boy who was on the baseball team. He, in turn, had an attractive friend who was also on the baseball team (and the next year would turn out to be a captain of the football team, might I add, since that stuff is important in high school) who I started hanging out with because I was hanging out with Kate a lot. (I mean, we all remember high school... no one really dated much... you know what I mean.) I thought he seemed nice and cute, and being a baseball player was a plus (because we know I'm obsessed), but there was one small problem:

I'd never kissed a boy.

The shame of it right? I mean my little sister had already kissed boys, and here I was, 1/3 of my way through high school, and I hadn't even come close. So needless to say, I was scared to death to even attempt it, my obsessive compulsive brain convincing me that I'd be terrible at it and that no other boy would ever kiss me again, let alone my little crush.

I didn't even think I'd need to worry about whether or not he was a good kisser.

So one night, Kate, her guy, me and baseball player go up to the mountains (that should have tipped me off right there... eesh) to appreciate the foliage and the mountainous environs (yeah right). As soon as we stop the car and get out, my dear friend and her partner in crime disappear. Lovely.

So baseball player walks me down this little path and suggests we sit on this rock. Which rock ended up being the MOST uncomfortable thing I have ever sat on in my entire life and was not conducive to the TWO HOURS we spent sitting on it. Seriously, TWO HOURS. Oh yeah, and I had to pee. Real bad. Romantic, no?

So basically I'm sitting there with baseball player, and, bless his heart, he more awkward than I was. I mean, I pretty much got the hint that perhaps he was planning on kissing me, but he just kept on talking. Besides, I wasn't totally sure I wanted to kiss him... it's kind of unsanitary if you think about it... and I had only known him a few weeks. Plus, there was that whole fact that I was scared to death of it to consider.

I get to the point where I'm practically writhing in agony because my butt hurts and my bladder's about to explode and I just want to go home. Instead, he asks if I want to play a game.

(I got a big pit in my stomach when he said that... call it intuition.)

I say sure, hoping that we can get the game over with and finally go home so I can finally use the facilities and let this night of awkwardness be over. He says he wants to play the "I'll write something on your back and you have to guess what I wrote and then you write something on my back and I have to guess what you wrote" game.

I think the last time I played that I was about seven.

To appease him, I oblige (not like I had a choice because I'd already said "sure" to a game) and he writes down Kate's name.

"Kate," I reply.

So then I write his friend's name on his back and he guesses correctly.

He then tells me the next one's going to be a phrase. He begins to write... I repeat each word aloud...

"Can..."

"I..."

"Kiss..."

"You..."

(Um, would "hell no" be an appropriate response at this point? Oh wait, I never swore then. Not even the p-i-double s word.)

As I was fumbling for the words to answer my brain was simultaneously thinking the aforementioned thought, along with stuff like: "well you haven't kissed anyone..."/"he is cute..."/"he DID not just ASK me in THAT way to kiss him..."/"ew, saliva" etc.

I finally said, what would become one of my favorite words to use with him, "Sure."

And it was nothing short of awful, bless his heart.

Which is probably why I didn't start liking kissing until I was 19...

It's anybody's guess.