Long Live Love (RIP Davy Jones)

In 1988 I was 5, and much to the chagrin of my mother I wanted a pink bedroom, complete with pink carpet and matching floral print comforters on my two twin beds. The only thing in my room that did not match my chosen rose colored motif was the orange poster of The Monkees above my bed. I was 5 and I was madly in love with Davy Jones.

In 1988 Davy Jones was 43, but as far as I knew he was 20. I saw him every week on Nickelodeon and swooned, having no concept that the show I was watching was in fact as old as I thought he was. I watched as Davy got stars in his eyes just before he kissed a pretty lady and I wanted nothing more than for him to look at me that way. Between viewings of the show I would listen to my Monkees tape on my pink boombox and fantasize that I was sleepy Jean and Davy was my daydream believer. I was convinced that someday we would marry.

Apparently my parents never felt it necessary to tell me that in real life Davy was in fact older than the both of them. I can't tell you for sure when I figured it out. Slowly but surely Davy got inched out by Jordan Knight and The Monkees poster came down to be replaced by clippings of more current heartthrobs from Teen Beat.

Yet, my love for Davy Jones never truly died and when I learned that The Monkees would be touring this past summer I immediately notified my mum. Her response? "We have to go." Unbeknownst to her she had purchased VIP tickets that got us access to a meet and greet with none other than the love of my life, Davy Jones (oh, and the rest of the band). I did my best to feign nonchalance, but my inner five-year old was going nuts. What do you say when you meet your first celebrity crush? Naturally, you tell him and he says "thank you" like it's heard it a million times before, but you don't care because now you have a picture with him. It's as close as you'll ever get to any of those daydreams coming true.

They Just Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To

When I was younger I made some questionable decisions when it came to guys. Don't get me wrong, I don't have any regrets; every choice I made had an effect on who I am today, but no one ever accused me of going for nice guys. Yet, I wasn't one of those girls who went for the "bad boy" either. Instead I went for the charismatic guy, the one everyone wanted to be friends with, the life of the party.

This didn't really register with me until one day my mum pointed it out. Her words were simple, but they've stuck with me: "you keep going for guys like your brother when you should be looking for someone like your dad". This might seem harsh now, but my mum was not being unkind towards my brother. He's a great guy and an amazing father, but he wasn't always the man he is now. He used to be the guy everyone wanted to be friends with and the life of the party.

My dad, on the other hand, is the quintessential nice guy. He's the first to offer a helping hand to a neighbor or friend. He is the last to say an unkind word about anyone. Unsurprisingly, you'd be hard pressed to find anyone who would say an unkind word about him. He cares endlessly for his family and friends. He is loyal and trustworthy and kind-hearted and gracious. More importantly, he's got a pretty fabulous sense of humor; mostly because he laughs at my jokes. He's smart and knows how to fix most anything. He also happens to be quite handsome. Truth be told, he's just like his dad, a stand-up man with an infectious laugh and a heart of gold. A man that it would seem you'd be hard pressed to find these days.

These days, when anyone asks why I'm still single I simply say, "they just don't make 'em like they used to".

Adventures in Decision Making

This fall I will be teaching a course at Portland Community College called "Decision Making". The irony of this of course is that I am terrible at making decisions. Not only do I tend to be hasty, but I also change my mind. A lot.

It seems obvious that this is do in part to my hastiness. I make a fly by the seat of my pants decision and shortly there after come to my senses/change my mind. Sadly, this does not always happen before I have executed my less than thoroughly thought out plan. While I used to think this process made me interesting and free-spirited, I'm not exactly convinced that is the truth. Now don't misunderstand me, I do not have any regrets, but I have come to learn that this may not be the best way to go about making decisions.

The other thing standing in the way of my being a good decision maker is frankly a bit of laziness. I will be exceptionally zealous about the pending decision and do an abundance of research (I do love doing research) in order to make an informed choice. Yet in the end will almost always go with whatever option seems the easiest. This rarely pays off in the happiness or satisfaction departments. Instead I end up anxious, wondering what the other path would have looked like.

I can think of only one circumstance in which I let my heart make my decision. It was the time I did all that soul searching and found that what I wanted to do with my life was go to graduate school to become a therapist (never you mind that the location didn't exactly pan out the way I'd hoped). Turns out that decision was the right one and one which I haven't questioned or second guess once. Hm, I wonder if there is something to this follow your heart business.

I'll keep you posted.

Recycled: I'm Gonna Get Married

I have recently been a little consumed with pondering the idea of partnership. This of course includes weddings and marriage and commitment and the rest of the list of things I have avoided and adamantly denied wanting for years. These thoughts not only consume my waking hours but also my sleeping as I have had a recent rash of wedding related dreams. I awoke from a dream in which I'd been trying on wedding dresses unsure if I should be terrified or pleased. I chose neither and have instead been obsessing over it for weeks.

Now please do not be confused, I am not obsessing about finding a boyfriend or a husband or am in any way, shape or form on the prowl. I am simply allowing myself to explore the idea of what it might be like to be partnered. I suspect this new line of musing is due in part to the fact that more and more of my friends are getting married off each year, but even more so because I am coming up on ten years of self-indulgent wondering.

Part of thinking about partnering is also considering what it might be like to make a decision based on someone other than myself. The idea seems almost unnatural and that scares me a little. If I continue on this path of me first decision making will I eventually be simply too selfish to be partnered? Sadly, I suspect yes.

Surprisingly, while perusing some older blog posts I came across one I had written two years ago on what would have been my parent's 36th wedding anniversary. I was shocked by my lack of cynicism and my overall tone of optimism. As I read the post I was surprised at how little had changed. Today the words seem pretty poignant, so I'm going to recycle them here:

My entire adult life I've struggled with the fight for my need for independence/fear of commitment/free spirit versus my desire to have a traditional life with a husband and kids. I'll be honest, the older I get the quieter my biological clock seems to get, but the stronger my desire for partnership seems to grow. I'd be lying if I didn't say that there are days when the loneliness is palpable. I love my girlfriends, they are my strength and support, but with so many of them being attached it forces me to reflect on my own singledom.

Aside from what might be the obvious reasons (being the third wheel gets old, even with the best of couples), here are some of the reasons that I have determined I will one day get married:

Simon and Garfunkel's America I've been in love with this song since I was 17. The opening line is so poignant for me, "let us be lovers we'll marry our fortunes together". I want to be Kathy. I want to travel around America on a Greyhound and play games with the faces. I want to look for America with someone who understands the importance and meaning of this song to me.

Coffee and Newspaper I make a pretty killer cup of coffee. I enjoy drinking said coffee while reading the newspaper. It would be nice to have someone (besides my awesome Grams) to make coffee for and discuss the daily news with.

Traveling I have been to some of the most romantic cities in the world (Paris, Prague, Florence), alone (well, with my family or friends, but still...). I've flown half way around the world, alone. I've seen and done so many amazing things, but haven't had anyone to share it all with me. I want someone to hold my hand as the plane takes off. I want someone's shoulder to sleep on during those long flights. I want someone to walk through the streets of Paris with and have other people be totally disgusted by how in love we are. And maybe for those same people to think we're French.

My baby need a daddy Hendrix loves boys; she loves male attention. I'm not sure where she gets it because it certainly isn't from me. I know it sounds silly but I want a slew of pups and it would be real nice to have someone to walk them with me and help name them.

Cooking for Two I really enjoy cooking, but it gets depressing cooking for one. Not just because then you have to do all the clean up, but also because you're eating leftovers for days. I want someone to enjoy my cooking and wash my damn dishes.

Dream Wedding As cynical as I am, I'm still like every other girl and have been dreaming about my wedding since I was a little girl. I think I've just about got it right in my head...except for the groom part. Minor detail.

Make a House a Home The one thing I want almost as much as someone to share my life with is a house. Maybe even a little more, but Jill tells me I have to have a husband to get a house. Le sigh. But seriously, I really really really really and really want a house. A nice old house that needs a little bit of work. Someplace that is older than me with a big front porch and a back porch. Shoot, this is my fantasy, it's gonna have a wrap around porch. It'll have loads of character and we'll fill it with vintage furniture that is as eclectic as we are. We'll collect odds and ends on our travels and have a story for every rad accessory we have. Oh man, I'd get married tomorrow if he came with a house.

Happiness is... being married to your best friend. And that's exactly what I want, so that someday I can hang my Gram's magnet on my fridge.

I'll agree, this all sounds a little Hollywood, a little clique, a little unrealistic. However, I think I deserve it, and at the end of the day all I really want is someone to hold my hand. The way my grandpa used to hold my grandma's in church when he thought no one else was looking. Because when all is said and done, it comes down to the simple things...someone to sit with in church and hold your hand after 50+ years of marriage. Better get crackin'.

Better with Age

Another writing sample from my class last weekend...

As a young child, perhaps four or five, I remember someone asking me how old my parents were. I of course had no real idea, why would a child know such a thing? But I assumed I knew. My mother was in her twenties and my father was in his fifties. In reality, they were 32 and 36, respectively, but I had logic backing up my guesstimation. My mother had a beautifully smooth face and raven hair that I likened to one of her favorite singers, Cher, who in my mind was also in her twenties. My father on the other had had light hair and a farmer’s tan like my grandpa. Moreover, he had a mustache. Obviously only men in their fifties had mustaches.

As I got older it became apparent to me that my parents were slightly older than those of my classmates and friends. Being from the Midwest it was natural to have your first child before your twentieth birthday and apparently most of my friend’s parents had. My mother recalls my embarrassment at the fact that they were ever so slightly older than the parents of my peers. I suppose I attributed their old age to them being less fun. My mom especially, she was always less fun. She was the rule maker, and while she denies it, the wearer of the pants. Her mandates were overbearing and absolute: only sugar free products were to be consumed; this included but was not limited to Jell-o, Kool-Aid and gum, no MTV, no Simpsons and no highly processed foods. We had to go to church every Sunday. Compared to my friends, with their young, hip parents, I lived in a prison camp.

As I moved into high school I realized that shockingly, there were people with parents older than mine. Several of classmates had parents in there sixties! I was delighted to discover that now my parents were somewhere in the middle of the pack instead of the old dogs, waiting to be retired. Upon closer inspection, it appeared that my parents weren’t even that oppressive or uncool. They refused to join my high school’s Parent Network, an organization designed for parents to police their teenagers so that punishments could be doled out promptly and accordingly. While I did have a curfew, it was later than many of my friends and I rarely had to ask for permission to attend social events. I was even allowed to go to concerts with boys, on school nights. My mom worked and traveled all over the world and would fly my friends and I to stay with her in various locations. My dad was a marathon runner and helped coach cross-country. He may have been wearing spandex, but he was the only coach to actually work out with his athletes. They both encouraged me to be my own person and think independently. Ultimately, they allowed me to move to London on my own at 19.

Now that I am a grown-up and inching closer to 30 everyday, I believe that I have won the parent lottery. Perhaps the genetic lottery as well. My parents both continue to not only age gracefully but also to encourage me to pursue my ever-changing dreams, wherever they take me. While other parents are hounding their children about marriage and grandchildren, mine have embraced my decision to put that option on the backburner. Even if my mom does it somewhat begrudgingly, she accepts that the only grandchild she’s getting out of me, at least for the time being, has four legs and a tail. My dad, at 60, runs marathons with me and humors me by wearing the goofy shirt I handmade to match mine in order to designate us as a father-daughter duo. They may not always get my sense of humor, but they laugh at my jokes. They continually ask how I turned into such a free-spirited, open-minded, liberal thinking hippy, and all I can tell them is that it’s because of them.

Postcard from the Edge of Inspiration

As my academic career winds down, I have little left other than what I like to refer to as "super electives". These are classes that will have little to do with my professional work, but we are for some reason still required to take. I had intentionally put these classes off and quite frankly missed out on a few that sounded interesting in order to charge through my program. With no time left I made my decision based primarily on time, with some consideration for the level of interest.

This weekend I have "Audio Postcards". I won't bore you with the specifics of the course, but I will tell you that it has renewed my love of putting words on paper (or in this case, computer screen). I spent most of the day yesterday writing and feeling inspired. What follows is a small piece of what was produced.

I know only one story of my grandpa’s time in Europe. It involves him sitting down on a rock to eat his dinner only to find out the rock was a decapitated head. I found this story titillating as a child, I relished in each retelling of it, but in reality I am not even certain it was Grandpa who told it to me. Gram was always the storyteller and Grandpa the keeper of secrets.

Since he passed away six years ago I have devoted a great deal of time thinking about how many stories he never told. How closely he held his cards to his chest. I have longed for one more day, if only to hear one story, be filled with one tiny morsel of a secret. The story I have hungered for more than any other is the one behind the photo album.

Grandpa had this photo album that fascinated me as a child. It was covered in what appeared to be burlap and was small, the perfect size to fit into the pocket of a military uniform. On the cover were two polka dancers, decked out in their leiterhosen, holding hands as they joyfully danced. Inside were tiny pictures of a 20 year old version of my grandpa and my great aunts, my grandpa and ladies that were not my gram, my grandpa standing proudly outside the farmhouse in his uniform. I looked at this album countless times, mesmerized by my grandpa’s handsome features and majestic stature. Intrigued by the scandal of him showing affection towards any woman that was not my gram. But most especially I studied the captions under the pictures, all in German, all words I didn’t understand. Nor did my grandpa, for he had, according to family legend, taken the album off a Nazi solider and made it his own. If I had just one question it would simply be, “Grandpa, who was that man and what happened to his pictures?”

The Math of Not Dating

My friend Eric is a funny guy. He's the kind of guy you would want to sit down and have a micro brew with. If you were stranded on the side of the road with a flat tire you'd want Eric there to keep you company and entertained. He's a good arguer, too. We have fairly opposing viewpoints on a plethora of topics; I am the flaming liberal to his mildly conservative. He's also a pretty decent writer. He has an easygoing style reminescent of Chuck Klosterman. His writing is often thought provoking and almost always laugh inducing. Naturally, I do not always agree with what he has to say, but I appreciate his point of view.

Eric recently wrote a blog entry taking a musical trip down the memory lane of his ex-girlfriends, and their numbers are many. It seems there would be enough musical nostalgia to make an anthology rather than a single album release. I can relate to this concept. I can hardly listen to Damian Rice's "O" without being transported to various London locales with a specific boy. My first (and only) boyfriend in high school introduced me to Coldplay and while I don't listen to them much these days, I do find myself thinking of him when I do (this is generally shorted lived though as I hated high school and rarely allow myself the time to be nostalgic about it). There are more songs than I can recount here that have meaning for me directly related to the various boys I've been involved with. But this is not the point of my diatribe.

My point it related to a brief statement Eric made at the end of his post, "dating is important". I could not disagree more and my reasons mostly boil down to simple mathematics.

Let's say my time is limited and I only have 24 hours per day. Straight away at least 7 hours of that day need to go to sleep if I'm going to be able to function like a normal human being. That leaves with me 17 hours, and 2 of those are usually dedicated to the gym/yoga/running/me keeping myself sane time. So for those of you following along at home, we're down to 15 hours. Now, on any given day I have any combination of internship, work and school taking anywhere from 5 to 10 hours of my day. This leaves me with a mere 5 to 10 hours for studying, reading, socializing and being a pet parent. That isn't much and if I have a minimum of 10 hours a week in reading/school work that means socializing gets a very small percentage of my time (I'm not real good with math so I can't give you exact numbers). So say I have a minimum of five friends in Portland that I try to see on a regular basis, a minimum of five friends I try to keep in touch with via phone or internet on a regular basis and two parents I call once a week. That, my friends, equals all of my time. Gone.

Now I know what you're going to say, "why don't you just take time away from one area in order to make time for dating?". I will tell you why, and it again relates to simple mathematics. In order to graduate from school and get a job to pay back all of my student loans I need to put 100% of the time I've alloted to school work to school work. Moreover, I need to give it 100%. To meet the requirements for graduation I need to spend 20 hours per week at my internship site. No wiggle room there. In order to live and afford a social life I need to work a minimum of 15 hours per week. So? Why not spend less times with friends? As it is, they are not exactly getting a ton of my time and at the most basic level if comes back down to percentages. If I am spending time with friends there is at a 75 -90% chance that I will have a good time. Sure, I could have just as good of a time on a date and maybe even meet the man of my dreams (probably not though since I don't even know what that means), but let's be honest, at best the odds are 50-50. And I am just not a gambler. I'll take the sure thing every time.