How We Met and Happy Birthday

To my husband Weien, who always manages to give me better presents than I give him:

“How We Met and Happy Birthday”

As told by your wife, who can’t spend more money on you since we bought you that cool new phone last month.

Before I get too old to remember, or before details start to fade, I want to tell you how we first met. We’ve talked a bit about our story and how some parts we like and some we don’t, how sometimes it's too long and other times not quite long enough, so I want to be sure when I tell it this time, it's just right.

“Gracie, it doesn’t matter so much what your story IS right now,” my college academic advisor told me calmly, one spring day during one of my mental breakdowns due to the problem of WHERE IS MY LIFE GOING?. “What really matters is how you spin it.”

This made me stop hyperventilating, but she still sensed my confusion. “Watch this,” she instructed. Her fingers hovered over her keyboard for a second like pelican with its eye on a fish before they dove in for the kill.

My name is Grace Hollister, she typed. I’m a student at North Central College, where I am studying Communication, Sociology, and Global Studies. I’m the Honors Representative for my class and I’m writing a senior thesis on human trafficking.

“Now watch this,” she said again as she started a new paragraph.

My name is Grace Hollister. I have a heart for global issues, including the endemic of human trafficking. I believe that research on this topic and others is vitally important as it benefits both the researcher and the public, and that’s why I support my fellow classmates in their researching endeavors by representing my class on the Honors Program Board here at North Central College.

Before my very eyes, my advisor had transformed me from a ho-hum plain Jane into someone I actually wanted to be.

“Now do that all the time, with every part of your life – you might be surprised at how many opportunities pop up when you see yourself as someone worthwhile.” She smiled and winked and on the way out the door I saw the “Girls Rule” postcard she had taped to her door.

I saw you for the first time on the first day of our last year of college. You rushed into class, holding your backpack in your hand and a muffin between your teeth , just on time for “Perspectives on Abortion” with Dr. Keys. That first day I thought you were cute, but you sat across from me and to the left and offered a few people candy that you’d brought back from your recent trip to China.

“Would you like a piece?”

“What is it?” I answered, immediately wishing I had just said yes instead of demanding additional information about the strangely-packaged candy.

“It’s from China,” you answered.

You sat by me the next time our class met and you always had some sort of snack with you – muffins, Teddy Grahams, or (the weirdest) corn on the cob. But one morning you brought a peanut butter sandwich and for the whole two hour-long class, its smell made me nauseous.

“That smells pretty bad.”

“What, my sandwich? It’s peanut butter.”

“Yeah... I can tell.”

I didn’t see much of you again until March when we were both selected to go to a conference in New York. We sat next to each other as we rode upstate in the bus from the airport, and on that bus ride, I felt more vibrant than I had in over five years. I didn’t know it at the time, but somewhere between Buffalo and Ithaca, I started falling in love with you.

It was something about talking with you. I was amazed that you seemed genuinely interested in the people around you, which is a fairly rare quality in a 21-year-old man. You joined me in sitting backwards on our bus seat to include the guy behind us in our conversation. At one point I took a good seven or eight minutes to explain to you that I felt weird about how a few of our fellow classmates taking pictures of the Mennonites we saw standing on a street corner, and when I looked up, there you were, staring right back at me – you had actually paid attention to what I was saying.

Maybe the fact that you treated me how you should have treated me in conversation shouldn’t have been so impressive to  me, but it was. I hate it when I can sense the person I’m talking to is just thinking of what they’re going to say next instead of actually listening to me. One could argue that I shouldn’t just fall in love with the first guy who actually cares about what I’m saying, so I’ll also add here that when my knee grazed yours as we turned around to face forward, I was very, very aware of it, and that feeling doesn’t just happen to me every day.

That evening, a group of us explored downtown Ithaca. I watched you then, feeling refreshed at your fascination with the tired-looking college town. Most guys I knew then were more interested in some cyber-world than in the real one. They’d talk about videogames or football or food and joke around endlessly, but you wondered about what it was like to be a baker or a bus driver in upstate New York. You were different.

Then you wanted to eat at Waffle Frolic, a local waffle house (so not ENTIRELY different), and everyone bailed on you after I’d already said I’d go, so it was just you and me, on the second floor of Waffle Frolic, sharing ice cream covered fried batter. It was so good. I tried really hard to think of the last time I’d had so much fun and I honestly couldn’t think of when that was.

We had a lot of fun for the next few days. We slid down banisters, we had life-changing (no exaggeration) late night conversations in the hotel lobby, you made me stay up until we heard birds chirping, you made me try my first mushroom, and you sat next to me on every single leg of the trip home. At that point I knew you were someone special. In fact, I was even fairly convinced I would eventually marry you. You took a bit more time to realize that, but we had fun in the meantime, and you came to your senses about a month after we got home. Because of you, the final two months of my college career were more fun than the rest of college was combined, and I’ve been having more and more fun ever since.

It’s so strange to think that all of this almost didn’t happen. I almost studied abroad in college and almost didn’t graduate a year early and almost didn’t take that class with you and almost didn’t apply for the conference in New York. Although a lot of our story may seem accidental sometimes, when I think of these things, I’m always reminded that it was completely planned far in advance. Its beginnings, which are so obvious now, were laid out before I even knew you.

Square Cats and Lovesick Mice or Why I Shouldn't Ever Have Pets

Long before we were married, my husband informed me that he'd like to buy a pet rat after we're married. My response ("Negative, my dear man!") was certainly not surprising. But the reasons behind it might be a slightly more out of the ordinary: they're gross, they live in sewers and and barns, they escape from their cages on a nightly basis, we'd have to find someone to care for him while we travel, and, most importantly: I'm not ready for a pet.

See, there are some things I just know I shouldn't have: expensive technological gadgets, a head massager , the creepiest book ever, shoes with built in toes, and responsibility for household animals. All my pets just turn out to be lunatics.

The first four of these might make sense to you. I've had a computer set on fire, I would wear a head massager as a hat every day if I owned one, no one should own the creepiest book ever, and it is difficult to think of an article of clothing more ugly than toe shoes in the entire history of the world (and that includes argyle footie pajamas).

But pets? Well, it all started with Katie, Luther, and Gingerbread, my family's first (and last, my father ardently promised himself after the whole ordeal was over) rodent pets.

Katie and Luther were two white mice who lived on the left side of the glass cage that they shared with Gingerbread, our hamster who was not named after a historical religious figure. They all seemed quite happy with their living situation until Gingerbread managed to crawl over the wooden barrier that separated them and devour poor Katie. It was only days later that Luther died of a broken heart and Gingerbread died of indigestion.

It doesn't stop there, though. The next Christmas I received a gigapet, Digi, in our annual family gift exchange. To be honest, I played with him for two weeks or so, and then he went missing. Months later, I found him under my bed - dead. Suffocated in digital Digi poo. It covered the entire screen, in fact, and trust me, even a 7-year-old knows there is no recovering from that.

Then there was Kappy, our first and again, LAST cat. We would actually try to give the whole cat thing another shot about 8 years later, but our beloved kitten was absorbed (not kidding) while in utero by her mother, and therefore no longer available for purchase. But that's a different story.

Kappy started out as a small grey kitten that we adopted from my aunt and cousins. We happened to pick her up on my birthday, and so of course I began to say that she was mine. My family told me again and again that she was the whole family's cat... but it wouldn't be long before we swapped stories.

Kappy became as fat as she was long. She had evil green eyes that glowed in the dark, strange lumps all over her body, and a wretched character, comprable in my mind only to literary villianesses such as Grendel's mother and Medea. My brother Nate was her favorite, her favorite, and she woke him every morning by clawing at his body so that he'd climb out of bed to prepare her breakfast.

The worst, though, was staring into the darkness, and then sensing that the bedroom door was slowly opening. A strange smell would overtake the room and I'd force myself to peer over the bed. BAM! Green eyes stared back at me. She'd jump on top of me, make herself comfortable, and then just stare.

I'd lie there for what felt like hours, not daring to fall asleep for fear that if I moved at all, she'd claim my eyeballs and display them on her mantle over the fireplace in her evil fortress. Kappy died of a strange infection that I will not describe because it's disgusting, but I don't think a single family member cried about it or even missed her at all.

There are many more crazy pet stories - my escape artist turtle, my hermit crab, Javier, who was for all intents and purposes just a shell, and whose food smelled like death, our golden retriever Bilbo, who fully digested one of my favorite socks...the list goes on. And I'm certain it will continue to grow as I think I would like a dog someday. But for now, it's just my darling husband and I, and I think at this point that's all the craziness our new little home and landlady can handle.

Everything Outside My Window

Sleepy trees beckon me.

They want to fold me up 

in their branches.

In the wind, their trunks groan 

an old story that I 

could try to hear.

"We are warm, we are old

from everything we've seen.

And much wiser.

"You think back twenty years,

but we have grandchildren 

with forty rings,

"Watched the grayest you know

through crow's feet eyes

and old bark spectacles.

"That aged, rotten bridge 

that you taught your children

never to cross

"Has held generations

of lovers and has housed 

four troll families.

"Live in every moment, 

but not for it. Comfort in 

your small size.

"Time and the world grow

but you do not run them.

You are their parts."

Time to Make Fun of What I Worry About

Here's a good way to cause premature balding:

1. Start a country.
2. Through the process of socialization, emphasize and prove this pattern of success: good jobs --> $$$ --> happiness, the perfect spouse, your parents' approval, acceptance in society, homelessnesslessness, a white picket fence, cute kids, and everything you've ever wanted.

Oh, wait, we've already done that. Check and check. See, here's the problem. There are a lot of college students in the U.S., and even though they're all very different, there are two things that the vast majority of them have been hearing all their lives:

1. "You can be whatever you want when you grow up!"
2. "Get a good job so that you can be happy (and so that we can brag about you to our friends and so that you won't be homeless and so that you'll have cute kids)."

Way to put on the pressure, huh? Not only will one decision determine the rest of my future, but the decision is mine alone, and so if I'm a screw-up, we all know whose fault it is.

The pressure only increases when college students realize their time is up. 

Remember in high school, when you cutely told everyone you weren't really sure what you wanted to be yet? Their reply was, "Aww, you have plenty of time!" Not so anymore, my friend. 

The result? Thousands and thousands of college students hit a midlife crisis before they even graduate. What do they do? Probably exactly what I did.

1. Use Google.

2. Make a list of all your choices, ordered by preference.

2. Make a list of all your choices, ordered by salary.

3. Create a point system.

4. Add up all the points.

 6. Find the highest ranking job.

6. Apply for that job.

6. Don't get the job.

7. Get a different job or apply for grad school.

Don't worry, someday we'll get our dream jobs. If anyone has a clue as to how, please let me know. All the best to my fellow graduates, job hunters, and impractical, arts-lovin' dreamers. Au revoir!

Co-workers Who Radiate

Generally speaking, I don't like putting people in boxes. Categorizing humans seems inherently too simplistic, and so I shy away from certain Facebook photo activities and even useful, academic tools like The Myers Briggs Type Indicator.

Of course, the tools for categorizing friends and family range in simplicity. In fact, the first link I posted is so outrageously primitive in comparison to Myers Briggs that I almost refrained from drawing a comparison between the two. Despite the hilarity of some (mostly) harmless Facebook tagging, and the undeniable truths drawn from well-researched personality testing, activities like these can be taken to an unhealthy level and result in real, live, complicated humans being reduced to a few letters.

I should say before I continue that I have some wonderful friends who know much more about MBTI than I do, and they are able to have real, informed dialogue about it. I'm not arguing against it, I'm only saying that it, like any other created thing in the world, can be used incorrectly.

That being said, I'm about to categorize a few people who are very important to me, hopefully in the way that least stifles their intricate, beautifully complicated personalities. But, since human categorization is inherently over-simplistic, as I argued before, please bear in mind that each of these individuals is much  more than I describe in the next few paragraphs. Company and co-worker names have been changed!

Laura: The Funky One
My first job was at a family-owned coffee shop in a run-down downtown with a few shady lawyers and a bankrupt newspaper that folded.

But the shop had a little firework of a lady that made everyone around her happier - Laura. Laura was tiny, had a different hair color every two weeks, and knew the name and order of just about everyone who walked through the front door. She was funky. She tried vegetarianism for fun and challenged herself to see how long she could go without shaving her legs. She was innovative and friendly. We swapped pants for a day once and traded shoes for half a year when she moved so that we'd have to meet up again to return them to each other. She was incredibly optimistic, claiming that all Chicago seasons are wonderful, because the awful ones help us to appreciate the better ones.

Laura showed me that as a worker I should invest in the people around me, avoid mundane routine by distinguishing my days, and pour Fisherman Hat John's coffee to the best of my ability. Black, no lid.

Claire: The Elusive One
I worked at the coffee shop for over four years, but when I went to college, I needed a job that was closer and that had more flexible hours. That's when I started working for a paper supply company and met Claire, nonsense's worst enemy.

Claire was a concoction of unlikely characteristics. She was incredibly efficient, but fun-loving. Sternly spunky. Practical with big ideas. Easy-going with high standards of excellence. Critical but loyal. And she let her personality show everyday. Much of Claire's work was necessarily self-directed, but the multi-tasking wizard was up for it. Somehow, she always completed her ordered chaos by the end of the day.

Claire reminded me that people are multi-dimensional. In maintaining a healthy balance of opposites, she showed me that taking the lead is important, but considering direction from outsiders is, too.

Jen: The Feisty One
Happily employed at a small consulting center soon after graduation, I began my work with Jen. Jen and I worked as secretaries, and bonded quickly over Halloween candy and pasta. She knew the clients, the suppliers, and the staff that worked in the office next door.

Jen seemed quiet at first, but she was feisty, and she needed to be. Receptionists often end up doing the widest variety of tasks, even ones that are outside of their job description, training, or scope of ability. The amount of work Jen had on her shoulders was tremendous, but she persevered because finances were tight.

Jen pretended to punch the people that annoyed her. She had an impressive reverse sidekick that could come out of nowhere. Some might think this is a violent means of expressing frustration, but really, it was just plain funny. That lady could make me laugh even when I thought I'd grind my teeth to powder out of frustration. Jen was underpaid and under-appreciated, but she endured.

Jen taught me that a worker should be able to put up with a little crap, but constantly called attention to the fact that workers should also be able to voice when the crapload is too much. Her continual dedication in the face of continual frustration was a powerful testimony to me.

These women, although their positions were not glamorous, did their duties excellently, with a mind for others. They're unique blends of characteristics, but they all managed to radiate in their various occupations. So, my advice: we should all find folks who shine. Categorizing humans might help you do this, it might not.

Either way, we should surround ourselves with radiators and let them rub off on us.

Hunting Out of Season

Deer hunting season was not a concept I was familiar with until my freshman year in college when I walked into Rall Hall room 209 and saw my roommate's desktop background - a photo of a massive animal, gutted and hanging from it's hind legs.

My first reaction was to exit the room immediately and seek refuge in a room down the hall. Having grown up anywhere but the boonies, I could only assume that my roommate was deranged. Although that still may be true, she assured me that she was only displaying that picture because where she's from, deer hunting is a really, really big deal.

And it's true - to some people, deer hunting is just another part of the holiday festivities. Hauling out the ol' .22, donning bright orange vests so no one gets shot, and hanging bleeding animals from garage ceiling rafters are just as important as Christmas tree decorations, apple cider, and the mistletoe.

But the truth is, all of us can relate to this strange and festive custom. Oh, we hunt. We certainly hunt. Just not for deer. We hunt for jobs.

Now picture this: 9.1 percent of the U.S. American labor force, crouched low to the ground, behind nearly every tree, hiding, watching, waiting, and, of course, armed. And these folks don't wear orange vests - no, no-o-o. Friendly fire is fair game, and unlike deer, jobs are always out of season.

Yesterday, I thought my hunting days might come to an end when I received a phone call about a job opportunity at around 12:20 pm.

"Hey, is this Grace?" A quiet, mumbling voice asked. "My name is _______. I'm calling because one of my employees said you might be interested in working here at ___________. Would you be interested in interviewing for the position?"

To be honest, it was my day off. I was in an unshowered, pajama'ed haze, and it took me a moment to process what he said, but I answered sure and asked when would be a good time to meet.

"12:30?"

My eyes bugged out at my laptop screen. "In ten minutes?"

"Well, yeah."

My first instinct was to leap into the shower, throw on a pair of dress pants, and Cruella DeVil it down to...wait, where was it?

"Where is it?"

"Uhh...I don't really know."

I suddenly became very unimpressed with this man. "No, I cannot make it in ten minutes. I will email you my resume, and if you'd like to meet me at three, let me know where." That's right. Don't mess with me when I'm wearing my greasy-hair-headband.

He complied and I felt victorious as I meandered around my room and then down to the kitchen for a bite to eat, not rushing to get ready.

Later, we agreed to meet at three. At two-forty-five, when I was nearly there, my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Can we push it back to four?"

I was silent for a moment, gripping my bright red steering wheel to compose myself. He realized I was already en route, and we agreed to still meet at three in the restaurant. Which turned out to be closed.

After more confusion, we finally sat down and began the interviewing process. He seemed like a very nice man with a good vocabulary. But when he couldn't find an application because his briefcase was really a canvas duffle bag full of loose papers and when he explained to me that the position would only be temporary and perhaps only as-needed, I knew in the back of my mind that I would let this deer go.

Even though I'm a fairly new hunter, I've learned a major trick of the trade. So long as you are not financially bound to accept whatever is offered to you first, do not accept a job offer when you know you could perform your potential boss's duties better than him or her.

Unless you plan on taking over the company one day.

And I have no such plans. So Imma get my rifle.

EDIT: My freshman year roommate is not deranged - maybe a little kooky, but not deranged. I'm sure she won't mind me saying so.

My New '92 Licks Route 66

Route 66 gas station, pump number two. It was only my third time pumping gas into my new car. The first time - at the same location, in fact - was a disaster, so I thought my folks at the double six would cut me some slack.

Pulling my hood over my head and clutching my keys in my fist, I scrambled to the trunk. Yes, I have to open my trunk to open my gas tank. Thank you, Mercury Topaz '92 manufacturers. After finagling with the little black gas tank lid (Lid or top? Little black gas tank top sounds like an article of clothing from Candies), I swiped my card and hopped up and down to keep warm until the screen read "zip code". I punched in the digits, but the buttons did not work. 

I tried again. I tried using my thumb. I tried using my finger nail. All of my weight concentrated into my right hand as I pushed so hard I thought I would give birth to those five little numbers.

I marched into the gas station, keys and card in hand. I stood in line behind three burly looking men buying lotto tickets and Marlboros, and then I approached the counter.

"The buttons at pump number two aren't working, soooo...What do you want me to do? Is the pump broken or can I just pay in here?"

"Yeah, just pull up to one."

"I already did...It's not working," I ventured, confused about his unfriendly demeanor.

"No. Pull up to number one," he replied, stressing his p's and b's.  He lifted his pointer finger as he spoke and looked up at me as his chin rested against his neck which was similar in diameter to a can of Folger's Coffee.

"Can't I just pay here for pump two?" 

"Hey, you asked what I wanted you to do." The overweight gas station man in the white a-shirt with who-knows-what-stains looked annoyed.

"Right, but I don't care what you want anymore." I all but put my hand over my mouth after that one, I couldn't believe I'd actually said it.

Folgers made that scraping noise in the back of his throat that people make when they're peeved, but he swiped my card. I pleased and thank you'd my way out the door since I was cringing with guilt and can be more than a bit of a fake-o sometimes.

But he was pushing me around. And he did have an attitude. So I zipped back to my car, wondering whether it was better to speak my mind, since it got me what I wanted, or to remain polite, since it would leave me guilt-free, even if it was at the cost of my pride.

My Topaz sounded a childish "pbbbttthhh!" as I drove away. I like to imagine it was compensating for my fake politeness by farewelling Coffee Can Neck in precisely the way I wish I could have. Thank you, Mercury Topaz '92 manufacturers.