I am less than two weeks away from my 30th birthday. In my line of work birthdays are a huge deal. For pre-teens, there is no better day. It can be the beginning of February, you can mention something that occurs next August and no less than three girls will scream, “That’s my birthday! My birthday is in August! Is this about my birthday? Cause that’s my birthday!” Before you know it those three are up and walking around the room basically handing out invitations to Hot Skates. I do not recall this hysteria but I have always lived in Jesus’s shadow with a birthday of December 27th and as always, to each her own. As I approach this milestone, I’m reviewing some of the life lessons I’ve learned in the past decade, or maybe over the past three. This feels a little similar to my blog self-evident truths but this feels like what I need to write right now. Also, doing this might be a little obvious but again, when you’re 30, you do what you want. Here’s my friend Steph’s own version from July.

1. b. I am so lucky to have been raised by Nancy and Dick. They made us ride bikes in Baltimore City. Dad taught us how to fish. Mom did not call cuts “boo boos,” but rather “lacerations.” And although they’ll tell you they didn’t know what they were doing, they were the perfect parents. I imagine most of my circle of friends (I’ve really got some friends who are #blessed) know that their parents have been the perfect parents for them. For those who don’t have that, I’m so incredibly sorry. It’s not fair.
2. Aubrey is by far the best gift my parents ever gave me. If you’ve ever witnessed how close we are, you’re nodding right now. A distant but legit second place gift from Nancy and Dick goes to Playstation (first generation) and the game Crash Bandicoot.
3. Although cleaning is time-consuming and exhausting and never done, there’s a calmness that comes from an orderly environment.
4. Although exercising is time-consuming and exhausting and never really done, there’s a calmness that comes from working out.
5. Pets enhance life. RIP Nike and Duffy. Growing up with these incredible dogs as my brothers was a combination of the following: raucous, dander-filled, humorous, entertaining, full of love, hairy, messy, adorable, and it taught Aub and me about life and death.
6. Say “I love you” even if you’re not sure if the other person will say it back. I spent at least a half-dozen years telling my grandfather “I love you” to which he’d reply “Thank you.” Eventually, he started saying it back, even though I knew it all along. I come from an “I love you” family and I will continue to impose that on the rest of the world. Hey you, I love you!
7. It is futile to wait for a situation, relationship, or job to get better. Either change it or leave it.
8. Be happy alone before you can be happy with someone else. I don’t need this one anymore because Chas is my forever but I remember seeking solace in another person’s company even though I was not actually interested in that person. That was unfair. You’ve got to be able to do you before you can do we.
9. Tone is important. And it is completely lost in emails, texts, letters, and even blogs. If you have to say something important, say it.
10. Less emails is always better than more emails. Words get lost when there are too many of them. Be concise to be effective.
11. Being with friends = medicine.
12. You get one set of teeth that actually look right inside your head. Take care of them. My gram was very proud of her 86-year-old full set. Chas’s 94-year-old Grandma Frieda loves to say “I got my feet and my teeth.” Dental hygiene deserves our attention and I am not just saying that because Aunt Mo is a dental hygienist. I love you, Aunt Mo.
13. It’s okay to watch The Bachelor or whatever your trashy choice. Sometimes we just need mindless television to come back to normal. Life is just so real. The Bachelor is…some form of real. Put them together–you’ve got a well balanced life.
14. Nature feels good. And I know that I am definitely a four seasons kind of girl.
15. Yoga is pretty all inclusive. It’s meditative, fun, challenging, relaxing, toning, communal, and a lot more. Yoga improves lives.
16. If you’re going back and forth between doing something and not doing something, it will be exactly 100% easier not to do it. But it will also be 100% less rewarding. Eat the peach.
17. As an educator, you have to be able to hold conflicting facts to be true at the same time. You can’t help everyone. You can help everyone. One will make you feel normal, the other will make you feel crazy. Know them both to be true.
18. Consignment shopping is environmentally friendly, affordable, and fun. Most of my clothes are consignment and I dress cute, right?! (See tank top and sweater combination above.)
19. Travel is life-altering. The experiences you get while traveling, especially on a shoestring, are more worthy of your paychecks than nice cars, name brand throw pillows, and whatever new boot brand people are raving about these days.
20. You can’t make a meal out of only crabs. You have to pad your stomach with bread, corn, and Natty Boh. Crabs are just too rich to be eaten alone.
21. Live plants and even fake plants improve the look of a room.
22. Western medicine is not the end all and be all. Acupuncture, yoga, energy work, essential oils have each enhanced my life in a myriad of ways.
23. As above, our way is not the only way. And that applies to all of the “ours” in our lives.
24. Most things in life are not one size fits all. These leggings that I want for Christmas are apparently one size fits all (HINT: CHAS). But most things are not. People deal with joy in different ways. People deal with tragedy in different ways. What works for you…works for you.
25. It really pains me to admit this one but I’ll say it. Acne is not just a teenage problem.
26. Money is not a reason to live, not a reason to do a job. Money should not count as your life’s goal or your life’s work.
27. That said, often times “throwing money at a problem” is very effective, especially when traveling.
28. Reading is literally all things. It’s a cop out when people say “I don’t like to read.” Reading is the entire world. Learn to like it.
29. Always, always find a way to apologize for things. But don’t say “sorry” instead of “excuse me” or other things that do not require actual sorrow. Okay, Emily? Humbling yourself to apologize for things that matter to someone else or to you is always worth it.
30. Family, whatever you conceive family to be, is important.

Honestly, I could keep going. Maybe I will do 30 more next week. Thanks for the idea, Uncle Michael. I wonder how many of these things I will still agree with when I’m 60. I can only hope the acne is gone by then.

The junk drawer when I was growing up was always one of the most reliable places in my parents’ house. I knew exactly what I could find in there.

Rubberbands, a set of momma and baby orange-handled scissors that really cut things (you had to put these back after use), Mom’s yellow Skipper wallet from when she was a little girl, safety pins which were otherwise really hard to find, rubber jar lid grips that read “Vote for Ann Marie Doory,” birthday candles, a bottle opener shaped like a big-boobed mermaid hid in one of the back corners, maybe a quarter or two, and so many more treasures and items that fit no where else.

Chas’s and my junk drawer is much larger than the one I had growing up but it holds more or less the same types of things. Things that fit nowhere else. Things that you just might need but you don’t want to leave out around the house. Junk? Maybe not. Would you call Sharpies in all colors, junk? Cards from friends, a tabletop football, batteries when you don’t know which ones are alive and which are dead? Maybe we should call it the Treasure Drawer instead of the Junk Drawer.

The trunk of my car is similar to the Treasure Drawer. Sure, the other night I had to leave a box the size of a fat toddler at Chas’s parents’ house to fit a wheelchair in the trunk for an outing with Grandma. But, who knows when you will need a pair of tennis rackets? A softball glove, a coat that looks like a paper bag, a container of grits (just kidding, that opened and spread all over the trunk months ago), a weird-looking wrench a mechanic left in there, a few notebooks, my mom’s reacher fleet I keep meaning to return, a pair of shorts? I could keep going but you get the idea. The trunk of my Corolla is also a treasure trove.

My parents–let’s call them “Holders-Onto.” My trunk–I get it from my momma. I remember being at Whiz Car Wash one day about 15 years ago with the contents of the Sentra’s trunk strewn about the blacktop while the Whiz men vacuumed the interior. Aub, Mom, and I stood there next to a full-trunk-sized-pile of a strange mix of items. The car washers snickered as we waited ready to put it all back when they finished.

In addition, my parents’ living room has more books than most elementary school libraries. I’m a reaction to them in many ways (not in the way of books). Everything gets put away. Everything has a spot. We don’t need it? It goes. Even if my definition of “need” is still a little loose. My last hold outs of being born to a set of Holders-Onto: the junk drawer and the trunk (drawer).

That whole set up is the physical manifestation of what I have been thinking about this week. What do we hold onto in our heads and hearts that we could let go of? Yoga intentions are often about letting go–it’s hard to not sound uber yoga-cliche with this one. I think this is because the types of people attracted to hot power yoga tend to be a little Type A. We may lean toward the controlling side. Some of us may be there to have more bodily control, more mental control, more spiritual control. Control, control, control. Yoga really lends itself to the reminder of let it go. So I’d like to be a little more specific. What are the grudges, negative feelings, judgements, and little bits of self hatred that we can release?

Our world is no joke. Not in this moment, not in the past few months, not in the past year. There are bigger fish to fry than the bits of ugliness we hold onto, whether they’re for ourselves or for other people.

The other night, Chas, Freida, Cindy, and I were trying to park near the Hippodrome. From the window of a cheese bus ahead of us a preteen girl gave me the middle finger several times. I processed and then my first reaction was revenge.

“Let’s park near that bus so I can talk to her chaperone and tell that person what the blonde girl in the back seat just did!” I thought about it for several minutes despite the fact that we were trying to safely deliver a 94 year old angel to see The Lion King one more time. I considered how to find out which group of kids she was in, where the adult was, and thought about what I’d say. Shivers. As soon as I sat down next to Freida, I forgot. Unintentionally, I let it go. But really, I should have anyway. Clearly the little brat wanted attention and disruption and that’s what I gave her. I gave her my attention and I let her disrupt our evening. Being ignored would be the opposite of what she wanted.

Letting go of negativity is not just healthy, it’s extremely freeing. With my kids, the best thing to do is start each day new. I hear some pretty nasty words sometimes. But other than reminding them that this is not how we treat people, what good is it if I give a high eyebrow and a smirk? Will the girl I heard say “Fuck Ms. Eby” on Monday learn from me treating her the way she’s already used to being treated by most adults? Absolutely not. So I try to let it go and start fresh. I am trying.

In this first-world-world, it might be easy to forget that there are people with real problems. No need to list them here. You’re familiar with the world, right? Or our country? Or Baltimore? My new motto at work is: “This shit is urgent.” My need to report a 12 year old who knows not what she does by giving the middle finger to an anonymous person–much less urgent.

I would be better off channeling my energy to actual problems, letting go of things that do not serve me, releasing negativity that only brings me down and doesn’t achieve the retaliation (if that’s what it is) I am maybe seeking anyway. I think one of my favorite things about life is that you can always get better at living it. One of my favorite Core Power teachers, Cory, says “We practice yoga not to get better at yoga. We practice yoga to get better at living.” Yoga aside, we can always get better at living and I just love that reminder. So that’s what is resonating with me this week. Let the little things go. Let the junk drawer be. Let the trunk continue to be so multi-purpose and a little embarrassing. There are other things that matter and ain’t nobody got time for the little things that only beget negativity and ugliness.

Buddha (or at the very least, alleged-to-be-Buddha-according-to-the-Internet) is going to close out this week.

“There are three solutions to every problem: accept it, change it, or leave it. If you can’t accept it, change it. If you can’t change it, leave it.” 

“You only lose what you cling to.” 

“In the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.” 

If it’s in your heart and it does not serve you, just let it go. And I will keep trying to do the same. Namaste, y’all.

 

 

This week I learned that I am now allergic to bacon. No sympathy please. The thought of bacon at this moment absolutely repulses me. My belly’s fight with bacon has left my body scattered in several ways so I’ve got some pretty stray, random thoughts on food. And not just random thoughts, but also weird stomach-recovery-eating patterns. Last night I ate seven Samoas (now called Caramel deLights) in four minutes–thanks a LOT, Molly Davis. You Girl Scouts are really ruining us all. My only saving grace is that half a box would be 7.5 Samoas and I managed to stop at 7.

Photos of Food

Fine. Do your thing. Take your food photos. Post your food photos. Stare at them. Stroke your phone screen. Celebrate good times. Food is beautiful. Appreciate the food you have. Enjoy it. Savor it. Bless us oh Lord, right? But please, do not expect other people to care.

I’m glad that everyone on Instagram is being fed. But can we all agree that the food photos are a little out of control? Even typing this feels cliche. I found a New York Times article actually titled 11 Ways to Take a Better Food Photo on Instagram. Is this real life? Are these the things we are putting our effort into now?

I remember in first grade in 1993 being at the YMCA after school care program eating our daily serving of canned chocolate pudding or chopped pineapples from a vat. For some reason there was always a salt and pepper shaker set on the table in our room–usually these were just used for clandestine experiments. Brad Snyder leaned in one day, pointed to the photos of vegetables on the sides of the shakers, and casually said, “My dad took these pictures. He takes pictures of food.”

Well, I was still me, even if I was three feet tall, and I didn’t believe him. So when his mom came to pick him up, I asked her if it was true. Did Brad’s dad really take the photos on the sides of the salt and pepper shakers? Brad’s mom told me that his dad was actually a food photographer. Who knew? For years, I couldn’t look at that classic McCormick salt and pepper pair and not think of Brad’s dad whom I never met. Now, that everyone is a food photographer, I wonder what Brad’s dad is up to.

Allergies and Aversions

Allergies and aversions are hotter than ever. And I say this as someone who is no longer eating fatty pork because it turns me into a blubbering baby. When I was younger, I have exactly one memory of a friend of mine being allergic to a food. I’ve mentioned this before. I was at my dad’s softball game, eating peanut M&Ms. I gave one to the kid with the bowl cut whom I played with and pretty soon an ambulance was there to pick him up. (He lived.) Other than bowl-cut-kid, I can’t think of another allergic friend.

Now the allergies and aversions abound. And I believe them. Well, most of them. They’re legit. But what did we do before? Just stuff our faces with everything and wait out a tolerance? Sounds terrifying.

Now we are so aware of what’s in our food that we can actually realize what’s wrong with it or make up what’s wrong with it.

In this episode of Portlandia, the main characters want to order chicken at a restaurant but before they do, they want to know what the chicken was fed. The waitress lists the chicken’s diet including sheep’s milk, soy, and hazelnuts. Fred Armisen asks if the hazelnuts are local. Carrie Brownstein asks how big the area is where the chickens are allowed to roam free. The waitress brings out a manila folder to show Colin’s portfolio (Colin is the name of the chicken they would be ordering). Armisen and Browstein leave the restaurant, go to Colin’s farm which is some sort of farming cult. They stay there for a while, both fall in love with the cult leader, and so on. It’s brilliant. But is it that far off? Well, yea, maybe. But let’s admit that the now-standard warning label on restaurant menus was not there 10 years ago. It’s progress though. People should be safe to be allergic. But I do pity the person who has to go around asking if the food contains sulphur dioxide.

American Cuisine

American cuisine was not always scallops wrapped in bacon (ah!). It was certainly not always combinations of Asian and French and fusion-runeth-over. I like this description of what we Americans are eating now: “’New American is the catchall term for any cuisine that defies categorization,’ according to Phil Vettel, the Chicago Tribune restaurant critic.” We aren’t sure what to call it though which makes sense if we’re not really sure what it is. Right? Wikipedia is confused too. Modern American, New American, Contemporary American, whatever they’re serving in upscale restaurants. What is this stuff?

During the Great Depression Americans needed cheap and filling foods. But rather than turn to the various immigrant communities who were trying to serve up their native foods which were not only cheap and filling, but also delicious, America did what it’s still doing. We said, “Down with the immigrants. They must assimilate.” And we churned out foods like milk corno, milk, chocolate pudding with milk, creamed carrots, vanilla corn starch pudding, mashed turnips, creamed cabbage, more milk. It was recommended at the time that children get a quart of milk per day because of the Depression-era necessities it contained. Maybe the cow industry was involved. These foods listed above are examples from a typical school lunch program. The school lunches were meant to give children nutrition and also to teach immigrant children how to eat like an American. Americans believed that the flavorful immigrant foods had too much taste and that bland foods were what we needed. Spicy foods were actually classified as “stimulants.” Because people would have wanted to eat more of the flavorful foods, bland was the way to go. It didn’t matter than the immigrant foods were cheap to make and just as, if not more nutritious, we had a war to fight and new Americans to assimilate.

One Depression-era salad included canned fruit, cream cheese, gelatin, and mayonnaise. Yum. Here’s another: canned corn beef, plain gelatin, canned peas, vinegar, and lemon juice. (Sources: http://freshairnpr.npr.libsynfusion.com/a-culinary-history-of-the-great-depression and https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/27213074-a-square-meal.)

Vince Papa’s Dinner Menu

My maternal grandfather was in many ways a product of his time. The bland movement was a way of life for Vince. At my mom’s birthday a couple of weeks ago I listened in awe as my mom, Aunt Carol, and Uncle Michael rattled off the week’s menu. Grandpop demanded the same meal each week on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, etc. They all stood there agreeing “Oh yea and Wednesday was burnt meat night.” Burnt. Meat. Apparently my Gram had to put the meat right on the grates of the stovetop and burn the meat. Mom, Michael and Carol talked about how Grandpop didn’t allow pepper, peppers, onions, or even chicken. No chicken. This list is longer but I was too stunned to process it all. The thing is, Chas and I have been to the town that Grandpop’s family is from. Cefalu, Sicily has some of the best food I have ever had. Ever. Gelato served inside a brioche roll. Pasta all Norma. Arrancini Siciliani. Fish markets to make your eyes smile. Vegetables and fruits as bright as the Mediterranean waters nearby. I would post a photo here of some of these things but I didn’t take any. Kev?

Anyway, when little Nancy, Carol, and Michael went out into the wide world outside of Northway Drive, they couldn’t believe what they were missing. My aunt said that she moved to the beach with her friends when she was 18. Her friends said they wanted to make Sunday dinner. She did not recognize the roast beef. She couldn’t believe how flavorful roast beef could be. And this is not because my Gram was a bad cook. Quite the contrary. It’s because she was a good wife (of the time). And Grandpop got what Grandpop wanted.

Iceland

Do not go to Iceland hungry. Unless your wallet is fat and your appetite is really weird. As much hiking, walking, exploring, and hot-bath-soaking as Chas and I did in Iceland, eating was much more of a chore. Because of Iceland’s remote location, it’s pretty difficult to get food there. After eating his and hers $20 bowls of creamed asparagus soup one night, we learned our lesson. From there on out, rather than turn to the packaged salted, dried cod which was omni-present, we went with car sandwiches and oatmeal. A car sandwich is a sandwich you make in your car. We splurged one night on an incredible seafood restaurant in Reykjavik and it was amazing but more kroner than we could spend on all the car sandwiches you could eat on all of The Snæfellsnes Peninsula.

Those Who Are Hungry

May I link my own blog? It’s not fair to write an entire entry about food and not mention that there are people who do not have enough. Renee Buettner whenever she saw a person hungry, poor, in a forsaken state would say, “There, but for the grace of God go I.” I always loved that Yoda-like phrase. Because I am straight up lucky to be able to write this piece about food. And there are definitely people in this city and this world where this playful little commentary wouldn’t be possible. So there, but for the grace of God go I, but no bacon, please.

Graveyard is a strange compound word. Grave, as an adjective, means serious, solemn, sedate. The Oxford English Dictionary, one of those sources that is never wrong, says that grave actually started as an adjective:

Origin: Late 15th century (originally of a wound in the sense ‘severe, serious’): from Old French grave or Latin gravis ‘heavy, serious’ (https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/grave)

Motivation is a slippery little bugger. The evidence of Planet Earth’s motivation can be found in geysers. I mean how does the earth produce a large spit of water every 5 minutes through a random hole in the southwest quadrant of Iceland? Let’s all take a moment to appreciate Planet Earth and hope it continues to exist for generations to come (hope but also act). If a geyser can do this at regular intervals, then whatever you’re pondering doing right now (unless it’s violent or destructive)…yes, you can.

People seek motivation from YouTube videos, uplifting quotes, page-a-day calendars, classroom posters, emojis, New Year’s Resolutions, and in some cases, drugs. For my book club this month (What up, ladies!?) I am reading How to Murder Your Life by Cat Marnell. In the memoir, Marnell becomes addicted to prescription pills and describes this experience in clever ways, with way too many exclamation points. Also, as the reader, you really grow to hate her vehemently.

She says, “Here’s a life lesson for you kids: it’s much easier to go through something upsetting when you’re on drugs. The more intense the drug, the more you forget your problems! It’s basic science, really.”

For Marnell, school was not easy–the drudgery, the work, the expectations, the deadlines–but with Ritalin and then Adderall, she transforms into a straight A student, and eventually becomes addicted, strung out, pregnant by accident, and so on.

Motivation is something that just escapes some people. For many, it is the cause of the way they are raised or the environment they are born into. Maybe those around them are unmotivated, no one tells them they can do more, or they are raised–in all likelihood by accident–to believe stagnation or laziness are the only way. This is part of the job of a teacher–to foster motivation. We must get kids hooked on motivation and its results. Much easier said than done.

Comedian John Mulaney says, “Percentage wise, it is 100% easier not to do things than to do them, and so much fun not to do them—especially when you were supposed to do them. In terms of instant relief, canceling plans is like heroin.” He goes on to compliment the audience for making it to his show, saying that he’s surprised they even made it there tonight. I feel this too, many times. But, when I push myself to say yes and to do things, I hardly ever regret it. Doing is almost always better than not doing–even when you require several naps a week like I do.

Every weekend Chas and I go back and forth about his “Meter.” The Chas Meter is a measurement of how much motivation Chas has to complete tasks. He builds his meter by doing things like playing Call of Duty or watching his “stories.” I am often beholden to the Chas Meter because if I want him to do something he perceives as a chore, I need to wait until he has built up the Meter. I think Chas is actually pretty typical in this way, although I don’t think most people have a name for their meters or maybe even recognize that they need to do something they view as relaxing before doing something they view as a chore. Chas has an incredible aptitude for travel planning, saving our state from disasters, cooking, and even the occasional run; it’s the things he perceives as chores that I, given enough time, actually enjoy.

With a few exceptions due to Seasonal Affective Disorder, obsessive teenage relationships, the tumultuous ends of those obsessive teenage relationships, and a couple miscellaneous events, I’ve pretty much always been a motivated person. I love completing tasks.

My Saturdays are like my masterpieces. While getting ready for whatever is going on Saturday night, I can gaze at a spotless kitchen, Comet-lined toilets, drawers full of fresh-smelling and neatly folded clothes, a sweaty yoga outfit in the hamper, a baked good on the stove, freshly waxed armpits, and maybe a few envelopes ready to go out with the mail and I feel fulfilled. I have usually plowed through several podcast eps all the while and trust, I am ready to tell you all about the stories. I was #blessed with parents who gave me a sense of “You can do whatever you put your mind to” but also, I think I was born this way. I’m just kind of lucky. My mom told a story at my wedding that when I was 5, I marched around at the start of a kindergarten presentation telling all of my classmates where to stand and demanded their compliance. I didn’t say motivation always wins you friends.

A lack of motivation can result in a lot of destructive behaviors: wasting hours watching trash TV or worse, Molly Ringwald movies you’ve seen too many times, eating junk food you don’t need or even really want, and idle wandering that gets you no where. That’s where we get the posters.

Last month at jury duty, I saw the following poster. If jail time were not a legitimate threat I would have taken a photo of the poster in the jury duty waiting room. Since when should we be motivated to work together by a giant construction partially created by forced labor?

The thing about motivational posters and word art in general is that we see these messages all the time but we probably never really see them. Do you ever see “Live Laugh Love” on your wall and say, “Ohhhh great! I was going to Die, Cry, and Hate but now….!” Maybe I sound like a cynic but I do think motivation should be more intrinsic than a canvas from Marshall’s (not hating on Marshall’s). So to flip my cynicism on it’s cynical head, I would be in favor of the following poster.

Have you ever heard of someone reading a motivational poster and changing his/her life? I’m about to nearly disprove my own theory with an example not from a poster but from a motivational video.  In 1977, Rick Hoyt was in a wheelchair and told his father, Rick Hoyt, that he wanted to do a 5-mile race to benefit a lacrosse player. Dick agreed to push Rick in his chair in the race. They were instantly hooked. Together they completed over 1,000 races.

When Dave Slomkowski saw a video of Rick and Dick, he caught their motivation. Out of this, he created Athletes Serving Athletes with the goal of getting kids with disabilities from Baltimore City out in races. I know of ASA because my mom and my friends Diana and Pilar were among the very first WingWomen in 2007 when Dave launched the nonprofit. Dave has grown this group to huge proportions since the days of Mom and Diana trying to help a kid into a non-ADA-port-a-potty 10 years ago. Dave did a full Iron Man in Boulder, Colorado with James, one of my mom’s former students from William S. Baer School. The last time I saw James one of the first things he said was, “We crushed Boulder!” If you’ve ever seen an ASA pair or group during a race, you too may have caught some motivation from them.

Another strange, albeit common, source of motivation is New Year’s Day. When I used to be very YMCA-loyal, Mr. Jerry and I used to chuckle at what he calls the RPs. The Resolution People. After three weeks of January, the RPs are an endangered species, though. So in terms of motivation, it seems like their follow-through in my tiny sampling is quite weak. In addition to unrealistic resolutions, there are lots of reasons people can be unmotivated.

I wish I knew the secret for how to motivate people. It’s simply not a one fits all situation. But if we can convince people that the juice is worth the squeeze, if I can show kids that efforts really do pay off, if people can just see that it feels good to accomplish something as a result of hard work, I think motivation would be more popular. For now, maybe encouragement is the best we can do. That, and a bombardment of word art signs, little notes, videos, quotes, hugs, posters of the Great Wall of China, and all the rest. When you don’t know what motivates someone, I guess you have to try it all. This stuff too! And stop and smell the geysers. Actually, don’t. They smell like poopy feet.

 

 

In early May 2015, my friend Caitlin and I ran a half marathon in Ocean City, Maryland. I’ve run a lot of these things but this one was memorable for a few reasons. It was Caitlin’s first half marathon and her husband Mike dropped us off on Assateague Island at 7 a.m. for the start of the race. It was flat and gorgeous and way too cold for May. And, I took an oddly hard stance that I doubt one stranger from Philadelphia will ever forget.

If you’re a Baltimorean or just a person who sometimes turns on the nightly news, you know that the Baltimore Uprising that followed Freddie Grey’s death in police custody occurred on April 27, 2015, just a week before this race (maybe you don’t know the exact date but I will never forget it). I’ve seen and heard a lot in Baltimore in my 29 years but April 27th, 2015 was absolutely the scariest. It’s way too complicated to get into the 5 Ws and 1 H of that day but it was hard. I remember working on eggplant parm with Chas and suddenly he was running out the door and driving to MEMA where he’d more or less remain for a straight month afterward. I remember driving down St. Paul St., a main artery and a street on which I used to live and looking up to meet the eyes of a National Guardsman sitting in an actual tank. Pharmacies sat smashed and pillaged behind wooden boards instead of windows. Law enforcement seemed like they were everywhere for that time. And activists continued to protest. Our mayor fumbled. Our council-people swept streets. It was straight up confusing.

But there were signs of hope. Businesses and schools sent up banners reading “ONE BALTIMORE” and “BALTIMORE STRONG.” This song which makes me cry every time I’ve watched and listened, followed a little while later, released by Living Classrooms Foundation. Plus, I had found out 3 days before the Uprising that I would be at LMCJ the next school year–a goal I’d been working toward for a long time. Baltimore City would be my employer and I could truly be in a position to help the kids who were from the same city as I am. Nothing could keep us down. We’d bounce back.

When I approached Mile 10 of my race and our path began encroaching The Ocean City Boardwalk, I found myself swapping places with a man wearing a Philadelphia Marathon T-shirt. I passed him. He passed me. Repeat. Repeat. Just as we crested The Boardwalk and a large crowd too, he zoomed past me and said, “Ya still back there?” Oh yes, yes I was still back there.

I shot my 5’2 frame forward, maybe clipped his elbow (made that up but it sounds badass), and yelled, “Yea I’m still here! ‘Cause you’re from Philly and I’m from Baltimore and Baltimore doesn’t give up!” I took off like the lunatic I am. I ran my 13th mile in about 7:13 (I usually run about 8-8:30 miles in a half marathon and I’m nearly certain I get slower at the end). I couldn’t yell that to this man and a crowd of people and not completely smoke him.

So I’m a nut. And I love Baltimore.

But this time, rather than rant and rave and tell you why it’s so underrated and unnecessarily hated, I will give you some options for making it even better. People love to complain and bemoan Baltimore and say, “Oh what will we do?” Well, do something then. Don’t complain if you won’t act. And once you act, I bet you’ll automatically stop complaining anyway. If you’re not in Baltimore, I am sure there are similar opportunities where you are. So let’s just make the world better. And these are more practical than the way I focused on in this post.

My admissions are many: I have not tried all of these things, I am not trying to tell you what to do (but I kinda am), I am by no means all-knowing, I did as much research as I had time for (and I had three loads of laundry to fold before my basketball game), and I am not seeking a pat on the back or innocent assumptions that I am a mayoral candidate (not that mayors are required to be saints, amIright, Mary?) or Mother Teresa wanna-be. Selfishly, I just want to get people out there and acting on this place that I love.

I added some helpful hashtags so that you can target your interests. Full disclosure: WordPress lets me track “clicks” on the links I include so I will know if my readers actually clicked.

1. #quick Nancy’s concept of Trash Ministry is genius. Picking up trash anywhere is not just helpful to prevent that shit from ending up in the Harbor or the Chesapeake Bay, it shows other people that someone cares about this place. It sets an example. It’s an action and a call to action. I like this kind with the rounded, suction-cup-like ends. It’s easier to pick up light things like cigarette butts and straws than just a serrated rubber edge. Mom, you can weigh in when you comment.
2. #superimpactful This is a bit of a jump from picking up trash but mentoring is incredibly important. The YMCA offers a free membership for people who mentor two hours per week. It’s called Reach & Rise Mentoring. If the youth scare you, bother you, frustrate you, then help them. (Or don’t complain. Too harsh?) Other mentoring opportunities include: Boys and Girls Club and Mentoring Male Teens in the Hood. 
3. #diverseopportunities The YMCA actually has a bunch of opportunities for community engagement including Togetherhood, a group my neighbors are part of. They painted the hallways at LMCJ over the summer.
4. #greenbutalsopatient Get Baltimore City to plant a tree near your house. The website says “BE PATIENT…” ha! Baltimoreans know patience better than anyone.
5.  #asylumseekers There are so many creative ways you can help asylum seekers in Baltimore. See AWE’s website for information, or ask me for ideas.
6. #endbmorehunger The Maryland Food Bank provides food to families in their neighborhoods and even via schools’ pantries. They offer three-hour volunteer shifts for sorting food, working in their kitchen, and some office work.
7. #allgirlsschool #shamelessplug Lillie May (the school where I work) is courting competent volunteers, too. Email me for information.
8. #instantandpainless When you use Amazon, yes I am assuming you use Amazon because Jeff Bezos owns us all, there is an option to go to smile.amazon.com instead of regular amazon.com. When you use smile.amazon.com instead, you can select ANY nonprofit and tiny bits of your sale will support that organization. If you want to support LMCJ, choose “Girls Charter School, Inc.” or select any of the other million charities that deserve our love.
9. #granolasinthecardoor Baltimore is full of people with cardboard signs. Just keep granola bars in the car door pocket. I offer those over money. First off, I don’t have much money but I can always give a granola bar. I buy the Giant brand in bulk and at the very least, I am telling that person that someone cares, even if it’s in a tiny way.
10. #alltheanimals The MDSPCA has the cutest volunteer opportunities. I can barely handle it. This image is from their website.  
    

    This angel came from the SPCA in Hampden, for example.

11. #creativerecycling Although I think AWE should get lots of the things you want to give away, there are a ton of really cool recycling programs in Baltimore (again, probably every other city too). You have stuff you don’t need? There’s a way for it to be re-used.
    • #cellphones House of Ruth accepts unlocked, used cell phones to give to their clients who are victims of domestic abuse.
    • #microwaves House of Ruth also has a great Wish List for their most needed items including small microwave ovens (Jesse), school uniforms, and bedding.
    • #recycleChas’sPS4pleaseandotherthings This list is incredibly comprehensive. It includes ideas, information, websites, and contact information for where to donate items from batteries to bikes, from VHS tapes to the very video game system on which Chas will not stop playing Call of Duty WWII. (Note: they do not accept skis.)
    • #recyclecyles (I just made that up–I like it!) Today I met with a guidance counselor from Digital Harbor High School where they have a Bike Club. The club members refurbish bikes that are found in landfills or donated to the school. They fix them and sell some to earn shipping costs to send the rest to small villages in Africa. I mean damn.
    • #momsorganic Mom’s has the crunchiest recycling section and sometimes they recycle things like jeans to turn them into environmentally-friendly insulation (didn’t make that up).

Whatever you do, pay kindness forward. This city, this world need some serious love.

“How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.” -Anne Frank

 

 

Dear Young Lady,

Being a teenager is so confusing. If I knew a way to skip it, I would share my tricks with you. If I knew a way to make it completely smooth and simple, I’d be famous. If I could make you happy all the time, they’d pay me a lot more money than they do.

When you’re a teenager, everything is the worst or if it’s not the worst it’s the best or it’s both at the same time, like what causes you to laugh and cry simultaneously or what stretches a rainbow over a highway. Your frontal lobe is just screaming and most of you couldn’t point to that part of your head if I asked you to. Your hormones are like a whitewater rafting course and you might not even really understand what hormones are yet.

I was a ridiculous 13 year old, too. I was quiet and terrified and still trying to pass off my best tops from Limited Too as cool. I had a boyfriend whom I didn’t really know how to talk to. He made me so nervous that sometimes I just ignored him out of sheer terror. My pediatrician prescribed a face wash for my acne that burned my skin. I had to walk around around all pink, exposed and raw-faced. When my mom let me get my eyebrows waxed, the wax did not like the face wash and they teamed up and took it out on me. I got cut from sports teams I thought I should have made. I was placed in remedial classes where I did all of the talking and answered all of the questions–not a great way to make friends–but it helped me come out of my raw, pink, protective shell. And I say and admit all of that to tell you that I understand that being 13 seems an impossible task and 14 is no cake walk either. (The cakewalk was originally a 19^th-century dance, invented by African-Americans in the antebellum South. It was intended to satirize the stiff ballroom promenades of white plantation owners, who favored the rigidly formal dances of European high-society. Source: Wikipedia.) On that note: don’t use Wikipedia.

But, barring any terrible tragedies, you will make it through. And on the other side of 13, you will be better for having lived it.

The thing is, hon, you loved me when you were 11, you liked me enough when you were 12. I was young and fun and smiley and caring. And now, I still try to be those things but you just think I’m obnoxious and evil and mocking and I “get too smart.” I’m sure that if I were you, I’d think that too–that’s what I need to remember: you are 13 and you (partially) cannot help it. Your body is doing weird things that smell and feel weird and can look awkward. Exponents are confusing. Why are they so small? Outer space is infinite. But what does that even mean? Shakespeare died 400 years ago. Does what they speak in England still count as English? I know your world is expanding rapidly and vapidly and it’s scary. You’ve got one leg under a Princess Elsa comforter and the other walking toward the open car door of an older boy. That’s what scares the hell out of me.

You’re a child. But adult things are happening to you. I know you don’t know what to do but you don’t know you don’t know what to do. You know?

Your brain is turnt up right now! It wants to make connections and learn new things. In your teen years, your brain is ultra responsive which sounds amazing. But it’s also a little freaky. New experiences seem like they’re glowing with potential and possibility–because they are. That goes for the good ones and the bad ones. Boys, alcohol, drugs–the bad ones–are calling to you like sirens yelling across your ocean of confusion.

The part of your brain that governs your judgment isn’t fully connected yet. You don’t have enough “white matter” which allows nerves to send signals throughout your brain. White matter is developing every day but in the mean time, you are still making decisions every day, whether you’re ready to make them or not. And some of these decisions have consequences that stick around.

So why am I telling you about you? I’m telling you about you for a lot of reasons.

I know you didn’t mean it when you told me to get out of your face. You spoke too soon when you said “Ms. Eby you don’t know how to help people be better.” While I wish you’d thought twice before you blurted out the f word across the room and I’d hoped you had already knew not to skip class, I get it. You are a human-in-progress. And sometimes, I will be a casualty of that–I will do that for you.

When I see you make the same mistake again and again with the same group of friends who only bring you down, I just want to scream at you. Instead, I pull you side with no one else around. I ask you, “Why did you go to 7-11 with those boys instead of coming to community crew?” You tell me that you’re not sure, that you knew better, but I already knew you knew better because we had this conversation yesterday, and Monday, also Thursday, and last week too.

Those mornings when I ask you how you’re doing and you pretend like I am not talking at all, let alone to you, I know you don’t know where to place your emotions. So you place them on me. I’ll hold them for you and hope that I am modeling for you how to be. Maybe someday you will be that emotional foam for someone else–all inanimate absorption. You will see that you shouldn’t take things too personally. That other peoples’ actions are not always about you. They know not what they do. They mean not what they say.

If I call your guardian to keep her in the loop, I want you to someday realize that I’m doing that for you. She and I are a team. We are Team You. I hope someday you know that I involve her because I know you do your best knowing that you’re being watched. You succeed when we communicate with you and also about you. I write down time stamps for when you arrive at school because she needs to know you took the shortest point from A to B. She needs to know you’re not wandering the streets of Baltimore like so many do. And I need the validation that someone else is out there watching you and caring for you and hoping for you.

When you succeed, when you raise your grade, when you win an award, when you write a poem, when you say “Ms. Eby, guess what?,” when you smile at me and just say “Good morning,” I know I am doing something right because you are doing something right. When you thrive, I thrive. If you only knew what your success means to me and to your other teachers, if you could walk around in our brains and our hearts, you’d understand. You’d get why we work all Sunday. You’d understand why we are on the verge of tears when you cut us down. You’d know how much you matter to us. You’d have the most dramatic eureka moment. For now, all we have are our words and our actions. So I will keep doing what I’m doing because you matter to me.

Thanks for reminding me what it’s like to be 13. I think I’d suppressed it 16 years ago. But I remember now. And I’m pretty sure you’re going to be okay. Someday, please call me and tell me, “Thanks for not giving up on me.”

You’re welcome,

Mrs. Eby

 

Yesterday, one of my girls who is typically one of my great advocates, was giving me a snarky lip and major attitude. “What’s wrong, C?” I asked. “Why are you being such a teenager?”

“Ms. Eby, when you get older, why do your emotions change?” she asked back. For her utter self awareness and admission that she was being different, I wanted to shake her hand, to pick her up and swing her around, give her a gold star. Instead I said, “Well, C, those are your hormones that are making you feel differently. It’ll all be okay, though. I promise.”

But really, do I promise? Is it going to be okay? Being an adult is a whole different beast. I don’t know if I ever figured out how to be a good teenager and I’m constantly questioning my ability to be an adult.

Yesterday one of my best and oldest friends turned 30. Sarah and I met when we were 5 years old in Ms. Vivirito’s room (see also: https://writingamandy.com/2017/10/06/whats-your-deal/). All bangs and baby teeth and lacy white socks rising up from brown bucks from Van Dyke and Bacon. I have literal decades of memories with Sarah. Now, she’s about to become a mother. Just a couple moths ago, we were riding in my mom’s Honda Civic hatchback, nicknamed The Marshmallow, to Girl Scout camping trips gushing about Jonathan Taylor Thomas. And now she’s 30 and I am exactly 2 months away? And JTT, well he’s 36.

It’s almost cliche to even say that this is cliche but where the holy heck does the time go? Now that my crew are mostly teenagers and I am suddenly the enemy, Lucifer, and the erkiest (sic) all wrapped up in one, I am having a eureka moment. I was a mean teenager too. I remember practicing driving with my dad and just screaming at him for existing and for the van not doing what I wanted it to do. I shudder to remember yelling at my mom for not ordering the graduation announcement cards–who the fuck cares about those cards? If they’re getting the graduation photo, they know you graduated. Ugh. I sucked.

But I am not a child anymore. I am a real adult. Well, somewhat real–let’s not get carried away. I pay my bills on time, have a pot-filler in my kitchen (yes a faucet just to fill pots–hold your applause), and I can use Drano in our tub when it gets clogged without poisoning myself. But Chas and I still argue daily about who farted. I still request “Apple Bottom Jeans” at every DJ-run event I attend and dance like a hooker who owns the place. I will never stop calling my dad in a crisis and I can nap like a kindergartner.

But I am an adult. I guess. Thank god I found a husband who is on my level.

 

Lately another member of my crew has been telling me that I “create my own gray hairs” because I “do too much.” What an astute observation?! What she meant was that I say too much, I care too much, I think she matters too much. Yea, yea, I’m used to that, though. Sometimes I’m told that I am “doing the most.” Whew.

The thing is I got to thinking about how much I do do. With Lillie May, yoga side gig, yoga teacher training, this blog, freelance tutoring (shameless plug: seeking clients remote and in person), basketball, football, my burgeoning singing career (that one is a joke), and so many other things I just love to do, I maybe do too much, like she says. I remember Father Bob, the priest who baptized me and married us, said once that being “busy” is a luxury. It’s a cop out. People love to run around saying, “Oh I am so busy.” We love to use “busy” as the trump card (ugh, can we all come up for another term for this in Hearts and in life) to get out of things. Sometimes saying we are busy, is just an excuse we use to say we are not accountable. The spiritual perspective on being busy can be found here. And while I do agree with the writer of spiritual perspective article and I do believe I and we all could stop and examine more often, I am more of the mindset that we are choosing this life. If you’re busy, you probably chose that route. I know I did. Father Bob said that we shouldn’t say we are busy, but we are “involved.” Maybe some of us are “heavily involved.” Busy is often code for “I can’t.” And who wants to have “I can’t” as his or her mantra? Shivers. I am involved and I choose to be involved because I love being involved. Last night I went to The Stoop and in the program one of the speakers had the following written in her bio: “She lives in Towson with her husband and son, who remind her when she complains of chronic sleep-deprivation that it’s her own fault.” Yep.

Now that my job is essentially to prepare kids to be adults, I’m amused by the things I still can’t “adult” with. Comedian John Mulaney said, “It’s tough to know what to do with your money these days. A few days ago, the Dow Jones dropped another 240 points. And I can’t tell you how frustrating it is [DRAMATIC PAUSE] to not know what that means.” I hear you John. Two years ago, I sat with a woman from VALIC named Stacey. Stacey said the phrase “aggressive investing” several times. We made a lot of decisions. I chose this, poo-pooed that. I selected amounts. I picked companies. To this day, I have absolutely no idea what VALIC is, what VALIC does, nor where that money exists. The entire time we were talking, I was chanting in my head “Be AGGRESSIVE! A-G-G-R-E-SS-I-V-E!” She had me at “aggressive.” And by had me, I mean she lost me.

Reader’s note: please don’t explain VALIC to me. I will deal with it when it becomes a problem. Until then, I am just too busy.

The other day my principal asked me to feed the school tarantula, Scarlett. I had bought crickets two weeks prior for Scarlett’s meals. On the first day, I happily fed her singing, bouncing crickets. But two weeks later, when I opened the cabinet where the crickets were, I smelled the worst smell I’ve ever smelled. I dumped the cricket carcasses toward Scarlett and watched as maggots crawled all over them. For real though, where do maggots come from? Do they just smell out stink and find it? Do they appear out of nowhere? That was about as much as I could take. I hope Scarlett’s okay. But tarantula care is not on my list of skills. This was one of those I’m-dodging-the-problem situations. I jolted back to my office to find hand sanitizer. I owe Scarlett a true adult effort on Monday–I’m still working on it.

One of the most dichotomous things about becoming an adult is knowing the urgency of our world’s problems. It’s amazing to feel empowered and knowledgeable and powerful enough to do something about them but also nearly crippling to realize the gravity of the state we’re in. More on this in another blog.

Overall, adulting is hard. And spending my days with children, it is not lost on me that youth is wasted on the young. I can hear my Aunt Kathy saying, though, that becoming an adult is certainly better than the alternative.

So here I am. On the crest of 30. I’ve learned that being an adult does not require one to totally “grow up.” I’m denying my farts, dropping it low to “Apple Bottom Jeans,” and pondering everything, except VALIC. I’m heavily involved. I’m doing the most. And I’m still learning. It’ll be okay.

 

Anachronisms are polarizing. Some horrify us. Others make us smile, reminisce, and daydream. Our visions of the past are on two different ends of a spectrum. We yearn for a simpler time yet not for simpler minds. We wish we could go back to less complications but are glad to be free of so many barriers. In case you’re about to google anachronism: a thing belonging or appropriate to a period other than that in which it exists, especially a thing that is conspicuously old-fashioned.

Spotting anachronisms is a great pastime, typically. I love seeing the Arabbers strut down Baltimore streets and hearing their loud calls. You could close your eyes, listen to the clip clop under the hollers, and really imagine it’s 1922. I can’t imagine the traffic and noise if all of our produce were sold this way. Although I don’t think they use the horses anymore, I think they’re still noisy.

I stare at old cars and imagine my grandparents driving them around with the prototypes of aviator sunglasses strapped to their faces, scarves trailing behind them like the dust that old Mustang kicked up. The metal, chic designs, the sea foam green, I don’t really care about cars but I get how people are into old ones. And if you’ve managed to maintain a 1967 Chevy Impala for all these years, you deserve our praise.

Cursive crafted by elderly people is another archaic gem. They learned from the old school nuns–nuns who imposed corporal punishment you if you didn’t form your letters correctly. Now that is pretty damn cruel but elderly script is gorgeous. I’m looking at you, Freida–yes, I know you were raised Baptist, so no nuns.

If there’s a decades-old yearbook in the room, I can only focus on that–no conversing, no hugs or niceties–I only want to pour over the old-timey people and their old-timey quotes and their old-timey hair. On Christmas Day, Aubrey and I came across a set that included the addresses of the classes of 1934, 1935, 1936, and 1937. Their home addresses! Can you imagine? For at least an hour, we talked only to each other and only to share the street names and house numbers that are oh-so-different now.

When I’m driving through one of Baltimore’s less savory neighborhoods, I cannot fight away the melancholy thought that “these houses mattered to someone at some point.” They may have mattered to members of the classes of 1934, 1935, 1936, or 1937. Maybe I’ve talked about this in my blog before but in a way, these dilapidated rowhomes are just damaged anachronisms, standing (some barely) here in our modern world, crying for a time when they were important to someone. If I were at all handy, I’d pick one with a lot of old stuff in it and do Vacants to Value–mostly for the uninterrupted exploration of a really old home. I’d trace my fingers along the mantle, explore the ornate design of the banister. I’d check for the original wall color on the door hinges and examine the floors for telling stains.

Our house was built in the 1920s. Our hardwood floors have perspective. I cannot imagine that a builder these days would think that much. We can see the original kitchen floor in the bottom of our cabinets. It’s hideous, but I love that it’s there. The best things about our house are the tiny intricacies derived from the days of yore. I feel lucky to live in a place cared for by several families over 100 years and its anachronisms are its strengths.

The movie Midnight in Paris is about a man, played by Owen Wilson, who longs to live in the past. Without giving too much away, he does get to travel back and meet some of history’s greatest writers. I totally would take that character’s place, go back and look around, talk with Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway. While I’m not as head-in-cloudsy as Wilson’s character is, I understand his love of the past, its people, and its feel. I think I just see it most in objects.

Essentially, my love of anachronisms is why I love museums. History museums, many cultural museums, and I guess art museums too, are just giant collections of anachronisms. One of my favorites in Baltimore is the Baltimore Museum of Industry. Old machines, factory equipment from over 100 years ago, outdated appliances and games, it’s an anachronist’s (just made that up) playground! I like to picture the old-timeys standing around me like I am one of them. (In this scenario, I am considered “tall” because they were victims of malnutrition.) We are all canning oysters or putting out a fire or working the factory floor. I don’t think I’d actually like to do any of those things but man, if I could go back in time and look around a bit, chat a little, I absolutely would.

Hipsters really love their anachronisms. And NPR loves to make fun of hipsters loving their anachronisms. They’ve brought back typewriters, record players, slow food, and all things artisan. I think for most of this, I’m grateful. I will not be typing this blog on a typewriter any time soon but I love me some crunchy granola, artisan goods and foods. Listen to Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me on the weekends for some anachronism/hipster humor.

In the Boston Globe’s article about Generation Y, I found this quote: “I think a lot of this is a reaction to the hyper-capitalist, sped-up 21st century,” says Emily Matchar, author of “Homeward Bound: Why Women Embrace the New Domesticity.” “I think the pendulum swings back and forth when it comes to what’s fashionable. What our parents liked is uncool, what our grandparents did is cool.”

Other than the fact that I think my parents are actually pretty awesome, I couldn’t agree more. My grandmothers are the two coolest people in their old photos. I think I would’ve been fast friends with both of them had we been contemporaries.

For all of the positive anachronisms out there, we’ve got some negative ones making a resurgence. And that’s where the polarization enters. When people wave the Confederate flag in defense of their “history” or their “heritage,” they’re bastardizing my beloved anachronisms. When men dress up in KKK costumes, light torches, and march around in the name of…I don’t know what it’s in the name of…white rights? It’s like Halloween gone terribly wrong. It’s like LARPing for evil. It’s like bringing back an anachronism that yes, we should remember but never commemorate. 

Some slightly more light-hearted but maybe not when you know some of their histories. “Rule of thumb” refers to the width of a stick…for which a man can beat his wife. Yes. So, no beating with anything larger than the width of a thumb. Let’s all agree not to say that one anymore. To feel “under the weather” refers to a time when people got sick often and easily. On ships, the list of sick sailors was often longer than the space given to write them down. When this occurred, they’d use the space designated for the weather in ye old log book, to write down the names of the sick. And there ya go, under the weather. To refer to something as being “a piece of cake,” according to this site comes from the following: “It’s thought that this phrase originates from the 1870s; in some parts of the USA at the time, slaves would participate in a game where couples would perform a dance imitating the mannerisms of their masters. The most graceful couple would receive cake as a prize.” Maybe we should check out the origins of our idioms before we go spouting them off.

I’m glad I live in an old city and an old home where anachronisms show up all the time. I think it’s also great for me as I tend to be very future-minded. Anachronisms give me a great reason and way to appreciate the past. They’re amusing, enlightening, and make my brain stretch to imagine other generations of people. Start your own anachronism journey. Anachronize, away, anachronists.

 

 

When I was a kid, fall was the end of August, it was Sunday night at 9. Fall was time’s up, fun’s over, school’s back, tan’s fading, summer reading is due. Everything is the worst. The only saving grace were any Lisa Frank school supplies I could convince Mom to buy for me from Caldor’s.

 

These days, fall has gone through a major resurgence of popularity. Is it adulthood that makes us stop hating fall and start embracing it? I am currently on a flight to my third wedding in four weeks. Fall is queen/king. According to this article from MSN, September and October have taken June’s title as most popular wedding months with a tie of 16% of American weddings occurring in September and 16% in October. Former chart-topper, June, had a lowly 13%.

The 2002 Old Farmer’s Almanac held that “June is the most popular month to marry, followed by August, July, May, and September.” Traditions that date back to Roman times credit this to the goddess Juno, a protector of women, especially in marriage and childbearing. As a June bride myself, it’s nice to know I’ve got Juno on my side.

However, autumn has taken Juno’s crown and maybe her peacock, with 40% of weddings scheduled for the fall. Maybe it was the 2003 invention of the Pumpkin Spice Latte–more on that later.

I think fall has become “cool” (pun very much intended) because of a few factors: most big-girl jobs are year-round, comfier clothes, boots, scarves, and of course, pumpkin spice.

Now that we don’t have a giant break of time in our year like we did when we were kids, we can love fall. We couldn’t love fall when it meant school was about to start. Now that “school nights” are year-round, we can embrace it. This pent up energy of loving the leaves, the chill air, and the smell of a fire was stored in school-aged people for years. Now that we can let it out, everyone loves fall. It’s like we’re backlogged with appreciation. And we’re letting it all out now.

Hoodies are another reason we love fall. Hoodies, sweats, and snuggly clothes are just comfier and more forgiving than summertime daisy dukes and crop tops. Am I wearing daisy dukes and crop tops? No. But I do love a good sweatshirt. We are happier because we’re in more relaxed duds.

With the boot-takeover of the past 10 years, fall has found a new favorite item. Honestly, I think it’s a bit much. Boots are great for many fall activities like jumping in puddles, riding horses, and kicking mud. Just kidding. They’re completely impractical. But boots are cute–within limits. Remember college students: if you are no longer in Catholic school, you don’t have to wear a uniform anymore. You can choose your own clothes. College campuses give me the heebie-jeebies for this reason. It’s like everyone might suddenly turn into a robot and start attacking.

I’m not saying I’m anti-boot. I’m not. But let’s welcome the variety that’s out there. Fall should not turn us in to annual sheeple.

Scarves, I think, are another reason fall has become so hip. Scarves look great on everyone. They improve outfits. They warm necks. They’re a wardrobe MVP. Who doesn’t love a good scarf? Even Bachelorette contestants are pro-scarf. And they’re manly men (who must have something deeply wrong with them since they are on the show, except for Peter, who is perfect).

Lastly, pumpkin fucking spice. I’m sorry. I have to say it that way. This shit is absolutely out of control. I love pumpkin pie, pumpkin roll, I even enjoy a grande PSL here and there. But let’s everybody just calm down about the pumpkin spice. The PSL at Starbucks is celebrating its 14th anniversary this season. Its return has become the harbinger of autumn. But the rest of the food industry won’t miss out on its cut. The displays of pumpkin spice flavored items at Giant are downright ridiculous.

It doesn’t stop with food, though. I visited a school last week for my job, a Catholic school in Baltimore City. The day before I was there they had a full evacuation. Why? You ask. Because of a pumpkin spice air freshener. There was a hazmat team. The roads surrounding the school were blocked. And kids had to sit stoop-side for hours. Are we at the tipping point where pumpkin spice turns evil? 

The other side of this argument is essentially the catchphrase for Apple Jacks. “We eat what we like!” I found an article that literally argues the opposite of mine. Mind you, I concocted this idea myself and only found this afterward. This article also includes the following photo as a “mean” example of her point.

That’s fine. “Eat what you like” and that is kind of mean BUT there is a whole world of variety out there. I love all seasons at the start. By the third month, I’m totally done. So right now, fall is fine by me. I’ll play the game, eat the pumpkin roll, take out the boots, snuggle into my hoodies. But I kind of miss my end-of-the-world view of fall. It was fun to have a season as an enemy. And I definitely miss Lisa Frank.