Well, it's snowing like crazy. I know eventually it won't freak me out so much but holy shit. There is so much snow dumping down I don't know if it's exciting or scary. Both? Do I want to go play? Do I want to go to bed? Should I try cleaning a few inches (feet!!!??!?) off of my car that is parked out front in what looks like an increasingly large snow bank right now?
I'm fortunate I don't HAVE to go anywhere right now, but knowing I'd have a really hard time getting anywhere makes me feel claustrophobic. I'm trying to appreciate that there's food and alcohol in the house, the heat's on, and my car is parked on the side that doesn't have to be clear until Monday morning.
11 December 2010
10 December 2010
Minneapolis Freeze
I don't care how cold it is, I'm still falling in love with my new city...
(Via Stuff About Minneapolis and Flickr.)
(Via Stuff About Minneapolis and Flickr.)
07 December 2010
I don't know what my first memory of my sister is, but I like to tell people it's the time when I was still a baby and she, a toddler, was holding me on her lap, and she leaned over as if to kiss me but instead bit my ear. (She describes it now as if she meant to show me, her baby sister, affection, but was overcome by a wave of jealousy that somehow manifested into an ear bite.)
Megan is two years and twenty days older than me; she was born on my parents 10th wedding anniversary and I like to think many of her personality traits reflect the manner in which she was conceived: planned, organized, calculated, logical... (She will think I'm teasing there, but really, they are traits that I wish I carried more strongly. Or at all.) My growth spurt and puberty hit not long after hers did (I think because I was always trying to catch up and play with the big girls, maybe my body took a cue) and I used to make people guess who was older, and giggle with glee when they guessed me. In reflection, I shouldn't have been surprised many years later when after a couple bottles of wine my sister mentioned casually how much she hated me in high school.
Megan didn't go to college right away; instead, she went to South America and worked with orphans, learned Spanish, ate lots of street food, and got her first tattoo. Then she went to college, which included a year in Africa as well as a return trip to Bolivia to research her undergraduate honors thesis, and graduated about six months before I did. The years between then and now included two in the Peace Corps, three getting two masters degrees from an ivy-covered school in the Northeast, and lots of travel.
If Megan and I hadn't had Brendan to balance us out I think we may have actually hurt each other in middle or high school. He was often a little shit, but he was our little shit, and we loved him more than anything, and that was often the one thing we knew we had in common. The morning that Brendan died, and I called my sister after hanging up with my parents, knowing she already knew and dreading what we had to do, I remember holding on to the phone and listening to her sob and telling her I loved her over and over. We knew from that moment that the only way to survive was together. It still is, and we are, and we do.
Last Friday at 5 a.m. my parents and I put Megan on a bus to Chicago to get on a plane headed to Indonesia. She'll be there a few months certainly, most likely a year or two, or more. She's in Jakarta now, I've gotten a text and a couple emails, and all is well. I miss her terribly.
Megan is two years and twenty days older than me; she was born on my parents 10th wedding anniversary and I like to think many of her personality traits reflect the manner in which she was conceived: planned, organized, calculated, logical... (She will think I'm teasing there, but really, they are traits that I wish I carried more strongly. Or at all.) My growth spurt and puberty hit not long after hers did (I think because I was always trying to catch up and play with the big girls, maybe my body took a cue) and I used to make people guess who was older, and giggle with glee when they guessed me. In reflection, I shouldn't have been surprised many years later when after a couple bottles of wine my sister mentioned casually how much she hated me in high school.
Megan didn't go to college right away; instead, she went to South America and worked with orphans, learned Spanish, ate lots of street food, and got her first tattoo. Then she went to college, which included a year in Africa as well as a return trip to Bolivia to research her undergraduate honors thesis, and graduated about six months before I did. The years between then and now included two in the Peace Corps, three getting two masters degrees from an ivy-covered school in the Northeast, and lots of travel.
If Megan and I hadn't had Brendan to balance us out I think we may have actually hurt each other in middle or high school. He was often a little shit, but he was our little shit, and we loved him more than anything, and that was often the one thing we knew we had in common. The morning that Brendan died, and I called my sister after hanging up with my parents, knowing she already knew and dreading what we had to do, I remember holding on to the phone and listening to her sob and telling her I loved her over and over. We knew from that moment that the only way to survive was together. It still is, and we are, and we do.
Last Friday at 5 a.m. my parents and I put Megan on a bus to Chicago to get on a plane headed to Indonesia. She'll be there a few months certainly, most likely a year or two, or more. She's in Jakarta now, I've gotten a text and a couple emails, and all is well. I miss her terribly.
01 December 2010
Old Friends Are Gold
To the ones I can sit for two hours with or twelve and we never quite get to the end of the conversation:
You Are Awesome.
When did we grow up enough to be married, to have children, to have careers, and aging parents? Hell, when did we ever get old enough to drive, or vote, or drink, or rent a car?
And yet here we are, sitting at the bar (the fancy one with tablecloths and candles over bottomless margaritas and buckets of salsa) talking about our few grandparents that are left, our parents that love you like you're their own and me like I'm the daughter that got away (that's a longer story isn't it?), and checking the time in case one of us needs to get home to nurse.
I love you old friends. I am so blessed, or lucky, or smart, or however one decides is most appropriate to describe someone who gets to have friends that knew them in their awkward stages, who knew them at their highest and loved them through their lowest, and still wants to drink bottles of wine and figure out the problems of the world together.
You Are Awesome.
When did we grow up enough to be married, to have children, to have careers, and aging parents? Hell, when did we ever get old enough to drive, or vote, or drink, or rent a car?
And yet here we are, sitting at the bar (the fancy one with tablecloths and candles over bottomless margaritas and buckets of salsa) talking about our few grandparents that are left, our parents that love you like you're their own and me like I'm the daughter that got away (that's a longer story isn't it?), and checking the time in case one of us needs to get home to nurse.
I love you old friends. I am so blessed, or lucky, or smart, or however one decides is most appropriate to describe someone who gets to have friends that knew them in their awkward stages, who knew them at their highest and loved them through their lowest, and still wants to drink bottles of wine and figure out the problems of the world together.
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