The Hunt Part 2: Desperate Times

When I received my seventeenth copy of "Oh The Places You'll Go" upon graduating from college, one of the places Dr. Suess failed to mention was back to my parent's house. I am a stereotype. An out of work college grad living in my old room and selling my plasma as a means of financial support. I am the dregs of humanity, the swirly brown stuff at the bottom of society's teacup. I realized this while sitting for four hours in the waiting room at the plasma donation center, tucked between a handsy young couple of high school dropouts and a woman who looked like she'd murdered her dog and glued it to her head (I nicknamed them the Poodle and the Canoodles). Together we watched Gone In Sixty Seconds, The Mummy 3: Curse of the Dragon Emperor, and Gone In Sixty Seconds for a second time. One a side note: Transformers 2 has now been replaced by the Mummy 3 as the Number 1 worst movie I've ever seen. Although I feel like the Canoodles weren't really paying attention.

I clutched my copy of The Brothers Karamzov in a petulant attempt to retain some small shred of my dignity. However that was shattered when I asked the phlebotomist why they wore the clear plastic face shields.

“For blood splatters.”

Great. I really needed that image of my blood spraying this poor woman like a Jackson Pollack painting.
My friend Mij keeps me encouraged at moments like this. She was the one who instigated the plasma adventure and who remarks with good cheer on how we’re saving lives with our donation.  While I am morosely quoting Romeo and Juliet to myself “My poverty but not my will consents” she will happily chat and make friends with every one around us. She doesn't refer to our endeavors as “whoring out our blood cells” and I doubt she would see the irony in me watching The Biggest Loser. Although, I must say The Biggest Loser is an upgrade from my earlier days watching Millionaire Matchmaker. At least it’s inspirational, and provides me with a variety of opportunities for sarcasm. I’m sorry but you cannot say phrases like “I wish I was half the man he was” or “I had to jump over a lot of hurdles to get here” and not expect a snarky response.

Mij also probably would have managed more than polite disinterest in the bleary-eyed Radison doorman with his high-demand O negative blood. Especially as he questioned me:

"Didn't you go to college to figure out what you wanted to do?"

Well yes I did. And no I still have no idea. And yes, I am an English major and realize some of these sentences are technically incomplete, but bear with me for the sake of this lovely conversational rapport we‘re developing. I don't know what I want to do with my life. If I did I'd like to think I'd be well on my way to achieving it, because I'm an absolute bear when I get it into my head that I can do something. But I can't see the path. All I can see at this moment is my dog Roxie who has pulled her head under the blanket and is completely hidden underneath. I understand the sentiment. Most days I would like to do the same. However, I have an 8 a.m. appointment at the plasma center, so I have to get out of bed.

The Hunt

Job Hunting.

That phrase is such a misnomer. It conjures up images of stalking through the forest with a rifle, and blasting the doe-eyed little job, tossing its mangled little carcas on my back and reveling in the bloodlust . I'm sorry is that not what happens? I've never been hunting. Anyways it doesn't look anything like what I do. Everyday  I sit in Starbucks and send out endless resumes until my eyes are bleary and my fingers numb. I always sort of scorned the idea of going corporate, of working for the man, and then I experienced unemployment and now I can't give away enough resumes.

Employed people are very helpful when it comes to searching. Take my mother for instance. I've transcribed a recent conversation.

MOM: Lauren did you see that job link I sent you?
ME: The sewing one?
MOM: Ya didn't that look like a great opportunity? You could write for a sewing magazine.
ME: Mom, it says you need to know how to sew. I've got three half-knitted scarves up in the attic but that's it.
MOM: Oh, you could learn how to sew in an hour. Just apply.
ME: You have to be an EXPERIENCED sewer. What am I supposed to tell them? I always pick the thimble in Monopoly?

I'm not going to lie. The prospects have been so disheartening that I've been tempted to sell my eggs, if only the thought of several little half-children running around wasn't so frightening. And I'm not the only one. I pulled up my unemployed friend's computer to discover the following article "Selling your Health: Sperm, Eggs, Plasma, and Hair Booming". Instead of laughing we set up an appointmnet at a plasma donation center and I contemplated how much of my hair I could cut off and still remain a viable job candidate.

Of course some of this desperation was due to the fact that just the previous day I had been suckered into a job hunting scam. Apparently there are some unscrupulous companies that use job seekers as a means of free labor. The scam works like this: An advertising company posts a listing on a job board (in my case Careerbuilder) for a few immediate openings in their management training program. They bring in a bunch of people and when you get there they tell you it's a prescreening interview. The lobby is filled with a bunch of nervous-looking young graduates in their suits and skirts. They tell you they'll be selecting a few individuals out of the group for the next round of interviews which is a job shadow. You'll follow one of their upper level managers around so you can "understand the company from the ground level". Translation: you will be handing out fliers/coupons either in stores or sketchy neighborhoods and because it's an "interview" they don't have to pay you.

Fortunately my sister and best friend had also been duped in the past and warned me off before I went to the second interview, but that was after I plastered my facebook with the joyous news of my second interview, and didn't do much to allieve the anger or embarrassment.

The process of job hunting seems to be an inherently mortifying one, making a person intensely aware of their shortcomings. For another job I had to take a pre-interview assessment test that included 9 pages of math problems in a thirty minute period WITHOUT A CALCULATOR. Now perhaps they just wanted to see which goons would actually follow the instructions and fail miserably and who would take the iniative to cheat. As I stared at the screen in pure terror all I could think was, "They said this would never be applicable in real life. Dear God what's the formula finding the diameter? 2 pi times something. Is there a quadrangle in here? Why do I need to know this to work at Starbucks?"

Needless to say I didn't recieve a call back. I did however sweat off several pounds from anxiety which I promptly regained with Spaghettios and vodka. Just kidding, I can't afford the vodka.

Interviews have this way of making you feel like a complete moron. For instance in a phone interview I was asked if there were any times when I was unable to meet a customer's expectations and what did I do about it. I related an experienced when I was catering and couldn't provide something because it was against policy. A silence followed. Was there another situation where you were able to compromise with a customer? Well you just asked me to tell you about when I had to say no. So I told you a story about how I said no. If you wanted me to give you a motivational story about how it was against policy to give a customer some extra tomato sauce, but on my lunch break I went out to the garden, hand picked some tomatoes and whipped up a quick bisque then maybe you should change the phrasing of the question.

I really don't know how people remember so many examples from their work experiences. I remember the time the whole staff got busted for drinking out of the open wine bottles. I remember standing on my feet for 10 hours, sneaking appetizers off of trays, watching teens dance awkwardly at prom, getting covered in food particles after scraping a hundred plates, hauling linens up and down in a six story building, getting upset that smokers got extra breaks to feed their addiction. But do I remember a time when I had to multitask? I don't remember what you said five minutes ago. More to the point I don't remember what I said five minutes ago. Did I use the word motivationalize? Is that a thing?

Maybe I could describe my most impressive accomplishment in the last two months which was using all my letters in Scrabble for a 77 point score. Thank you "invokers".

And possibly worst: I don't have a solution. Blogs, like Disney movies, are supposed to have a nice tidy ending about the things you've learned and how everything made sense in the end. Like I got a better job after failing that  phone interview. But I didn't, and I haven't, and here we are back at square one. The only silver lining is a seemingly never ending supply of humiliating experiences to blog about. So hey, I'll keep you posted.

Project Predator: A Proposal to End Obesity in America

I once wrote a paper entitled “Ending the Squirrel Obesity Epidemic”. In this epic three page paper I detailed how squirrels had become obese, aggressive, entitled little creatures that had personally menaced me for a package of Oreos. These squirrels are not unlike today’s youth. Michelle Obama may be going on a crusade to acquaint our school systems with things such as gym class and fresh vegetables, but the reason those loathsome tree rats have grown to the size of fuzzy softballs is not because they lack miniature squirrel treadmills and don’t follow the ever-changing FDA food pyramid. It’s because we humans have driven off all of their natural predators and the only thing stopping them from raiding the trashcan in our mudroom is my broom-wielding mother. And while this does generally frighten the cheeky little devils they soon come sneaking back when she’s not around.

If the federal government started a program to reintroduce predators to the urban landscape we could effectively get rid of squirrels as well as the obesity plaguing America. Imagine if you walked out of a McDonald's, your breath reeking of half-digested animal flesh, oil and salt coating your fingers, and you were suddenly met by a pack of ravenous wolves. Next time you might choose to go next door to Mad Greens. If there was a next time. Doing pull-ups at the gym wouldn’t be such a chore if you regularly had to pull yourself into a tree to avoid coyotes. If a hive of angry wasps was released into an unsuspecting classroom I guarantee that the kid who dogged it on his timed mile would be the first one out the door. It’s simply a problem of motivation. The media has done a commendable job of encouraging exercise through the use of body image shame, but clearly it’s not enough. We need wild jungle cats.

Now before I hear all sorts of protests about how this proposal would favor the brawny over the brainy let me just say that nerds would have a primary function in this society. First, they would be smart enough not to go out vandalising things after dark, not only because they have no friends, but because they’re intelligent enough to realize that vampire bats are nocturnal. And who wouldn’t idolize the person who invented body armor for defense against genetically mutated killer apes? This project would not only provide motivation for the obese but actively cull the stupid from our midst.

Other benefits of the Project Predator Proposal to End Obesity in America:

Fashion Evolution:

Now the fatties wouldn’t always be the first to go. When a rabid grisly came charging at a group the hefty fellow would book right past the girl in six inch stiletto heels. I’ve always been against heels on the principle that one day, when a virus transforms humans into flesh-eating zombies, women in pumps will not be able to get away. I don’t plan to have my brains devoured and neither should any sensible woman. Project Predator will have the auxiliary effect of transforming women's footwear to be stylish and substantive.

Global Competitiveness:

If we want to remain the greatest nation on this planet then we need to be competitive in the global market. I’m sure the Chinese wouldn’t object to such an efficient training device as Project Predator. In fact I’m fairly certain there’s a secret government training facility that regularly releases sharks in the pool to improve Olympic swimming times. We’re already at a disadvantage to South Africa who has produced such citizens as Kerryn Munro. When a crocodile snatched up her baby daddy, she dove in after him and pulled her husband from the literal jaws of death even though she was five months pregnant. I ask you, how can we compete with people like that without introducing fresh water piranhas?

and finally...

World Peace:

It’s a well known fact that the perfect way to unite a group is to provide them with a common enemy. After all who cares if you’re a Crip or a Blood if tomorrow your face could be gnawed off by a raccoon that’s developed a taste for human? Enough said.

-Shadow

A Little Bit of Christmas Spirit

Today on the phone, my mother informed me they had gotten a Christmas tree. This immediately sparked the question: “It’s not as bad as last year’s tree, is it?”  See last year, my parents decided they would partake of nature’s bounty by venturing into the mountainous woods of Colorado to chop down their own tree. Fueled by hearty enthusiasm, they set off to the forest, intent on bringing home a little piece of Colorado to warm our hearth. Unfortunately, “nature’s bounty” proved elusive, for what came home was a little more sparse than spruce. Though I wasn’t there, I can only imagine the conversation that prompted them to make such a rash decision choosing our tree. I imagine it went something like this, 

Mom: “This is fun, we’re gonna cut down a tree-- we don’t need the girls here!”
Dad: Laughs
Mom: “I wish we had some grandkids”
Dad: Begins to look off into the distance, somewhere in the echoing expanse plays the haunting chorus from Fiddler on the Roof “Sunriiiise, Sunset, Swiftly flow the days….” 
Mom: “Maybe we should set one of the girls up wi-”
Dad: “THIS ONE! THIS TREE RIGHT HERE!” Begins sawing it down.

And that’s how we ended up with a tree that even Charlie Brown would look down on. 

When I came home to help decorate what I thought was going to be a tree, I was understandably shocked. My dad had tried to warn me on the phone saying, “Now it’s a little thinner than some of the trees we’ve had before. It’s a mountain tree.” Unfortunately that description did little to prepare me for what I saw when I stepped through the front door.

I took one look at it and said,  “Where’s the tree?”

Mom: “Well...that is the tree.”
I pointed at it in disbelief, “That?! There are barely enough branches to make a WREATH!” 

After I collected myself, I managed to pose a question, “So, mom….dad...how many other trees did you pass by before settling on this particular tree?”

Dad: “Plenty.” 

Me: “Are you sure they were trees, not, you know, pine cones?”
 At that point, though they were laughing, my parents still felt compelled to explain their choice. My mom offered the justification that it, “looked different in the woods.” 
My sister, who had been silently shaking her head in the corner, piped in with “Did it look like a real tree then?” 

Their defense of the tree is something I can only attribute to classic underdog syndrome, some people are just hardwired to root for the down-and-outs. My dad defended it for a good 40 minutes, claiming it just needed some decorations. After positioning it at an angle that hid the more gaping bald patches, we set about putting lights on the tree. Unfortunately the addition of lights did little to mask the raw material. (It’s the classic pig-in-a-dress scenario, you can put it in a dress, but it will always be a pig).  In fact, the lights seemed to comically highlight our predicament: 

Refusing to lose hope, mom and dad insisted that putting on the ornaments would make all the difference. Unfortunately, the thin mountain air produced equally thin branches, which would bend completely under any kind of ornamental weight. But even after the young sapling dropped a few of our more mediocre ornaments, my dad still steadfastly defended it. The turning point came, however, when dad attempted to grace the tree with one of the ornaments from his “special horn collection”. See, somehow we’ve managed to collect a bunch of ornaments that look like this:

Most people would streamline the horn collection into say one or two...or just one.  But for some reason dad has developed a particular fondness for this variety of ornament. And for that reason, we are not allowed to throw any of the horns away. (Although they do take a lot of verbal abuse each year). So when one of the horns dropped onto the ground, emerging with a scratched bugle, the tree suddenly found itself without a defender. 

At that point, the gloves came off (along with a few more ornaments) and we effectively roasted our tree. When it came time to name it (as is our yearly tradition), we aptly settled on Karen Carpenter. It seemed appropriate at the time. Somehow, Karen made her way into our hearts that Christmas season-- maybe it was the rum-nog speaking, but we eventually came to appreciate her. We all agreed that, in her offbeat, unashamed ghetto-ness she was uniquely characteristic of our family (a family that once had a broken car window during a rainstorm and drove down the road with an umbrella sticking out the window hole). 

I think it brings to mind the idea that Christmas spirit is not about the tree, or what’s under it. Christmas spirit is about taking what you have and celebrating it with the people you love. (Even if you only have a quarter of a tree to celebrate with).  So with that in mind, Happy Holidays all-- and for those of  you thinking about cutting down your own tree, remember, “They look different in the woods!"

How to Tame a Terrorist

       One of the most profound pieces of wisdom my mother ever told me was this: "Children are little terrorists. You can't negotiate with them." This fact was driven painfully home to me this afternoon on the bus when a six year old boy took all of the passengers hostage with his preternaturally loud screaming. As the mother tried to hush his rage screams I reflected on the accumulated wisdom of hostage negotiators and how these strategems could be applied to parenting. If you have or regularly babysit a little terror try some of the following tactics:

1. Turn up the heat
 One of the first things the police do in a hostage situation (according to Die Hard and other action movies) is to cut the power, especially during a sweltering heat wave. Eventually the hostage-takers get so hot and irritable that they just give up, figuring that prison at least has air conditioning. This is an ideal tactic when your child is highly energetic. By turning up the heat and forcing them to wear a sweater you'll ensure maximum lethargy, and find they'll drift off into nap time.  You can aid this descent into dreamland by another common tactic:

2. Drug Them
 Now I'm not talking about throwing a bottle of tear gas into the room to break up the riot occuring in the ball pen, but a little whiskey in the apple juice never hurt anyone.  Look at this way, when they get to their adolescent years and go on a wild binge, you'll have saved yourself a trip to the emergency room. How can your child get alcohol poisoning if you've secretly been building their tolerance for years? Now that's what I call planning for a kid's future!

3. Turn out the Lights
 One side effect of cutting the power is that you will have no electricity in your house. We all know that a child's greatest fear is of the dark, so why not exploit that? One timeout in a dark, enclosed space and little Johnnie will be gratefully shoveling down his vegetables. For those of you who are thinking "what if this causes lasting psychological damage to my child?" let me share a story with you. 
 When I was around eight years old our family lived in a neighborhood of Omaha prone to frequent power outages. One night my  mom and I were alone in the house during one of these outages, reading in her room by candlelight. My mom told me she was going downstairs for some more candles. After waiting alone for several minutes I decided follow her, and so picking up my little candle I ventured alone into the dark, menacing hallway. Just as I was passing the bathroom door my mom jumped out shrieking. Knowing that I would eventually follow, she had been lurking there, waiting for the appropriate moment to strike. I jumped a foot in the air and tried to calm the rapid pounding in my chest while she writhed with laughter. Now I could be bitter about this experience, but I've discovered as an adult that I am entirely unable to be scared at haunted houses. I laugh and gleefully throw  my friends in the path of the chainsaw wielding maniac, because I learned an important fact that day. There is nothing scarier than my mother. This is the type of priceless life lesson you can impart on your children too. 

4. The Power of the Counteroffer 
 Professional negotiators cannot give in to terrorist demands, either because they don't have the authority or because the demands are unrealistic.  Instead of caving negotiators will often give small concessions. This can work with children too. Example:
Janie: I want to go to Disneyland
Mom: We can't go to Disneyland. How would you like this bag of chips?
Or:
Jimmy: I want a new bike.
Mom: You can't have a new bike. How  would you like this bag of chips?
Always keep a good stock pile of chips around to distract the child from what they really want. Cheetos, fruit snacks, and other high-fructose corn syrup laden items will work as well. If their mouths are full of snack items they will have more difficulty hounding you for something. Just remember to keep them distracted from what they really want long enough that they forget. 

Practical Police Psychologist Dr. Lawrence Miller said it best when he said "hostage negotiation is all about psychology". So get inside your kid's head, and remember what Mama said "Never negotiate." 

-Shadow Cat

Public Shame and Other Lessons Learned the Hard Way

There are moments in life when you have to laugh in order to keep from crying. This blog is dedicated to those moments.  

A few weeks ago I got in a little accident, which incidentally was not so little and actually resulted in the total destruction of my car. As it turns out, looking for a great song on your ipod is not a good idea while driving. Everyday I wake up and think, “Why didn’t I just use the shuffle-shake feature?!” But the immediate horror of wrecking your car is nothing compared to the phone call that has to take place immediately afterwards. Telling your parents that you crashed the car they gave you….. 

So as a punishment, my parents decided that my sister (who got punished by default) and I, would not get the insurance money back from the car, but instead, we would get to drive the family mini-van. At first I thought they were joking, but apparently the hilarity of the situation overcame them, cutting off any sympathy they might have previously had. When my mom first mentioned the idea, I laughed it off. Until they started referring to it as “my” van. 

Some background information is necessary to understanding the comedic irony of this situation. We’ve had this van since I was in the 7^th grade. Everybody liked it for like, a week. Then, without the new car smell dulling our frontal lobes, we realized how stupid we looked. My dad held on to the pretext that the van was cool longer than anyone else. Maybe because he never really had to drive it. He would often defend the magenta-abomination on the sole merit that it, “was very useful” and “could cart around a lot of stuff.” 

When I was in the 10^th grade, my dad’s truck got stolen from in front our house. The first thing my mom said was, “Why couldn’t they have taken the van?! Literally, it was right next to the truck!" The fact that his truck got stolen was overshadowed by our disappointment that the van didn’t get stolen. 

On the rare occasion that I had to drive it to school (after much weeping and gnashing of teeth), I would park it a few blocks away and walk the rest of the way. Because it was cooler to have nothing, than to have a van. There was always that rare popular guy who made a cult following from driving a mini-van. But it was always his choice, and somehow everyone thought the fact that he wanted to drive it, somehow made it cool. I feigned that kind of confidence, but all it took was one kid shouting “HAHAHA LAME!!!!” for me to crumple into a defeated heap of shame. 

Eventually my parents gave us their other car, and they started driving the van. Once my dad got a more hands on experience with “Big Red”, he joined forces with the rest of us and now everyone in our family hates her. I don’t think my parents really care about punishing me as much as they saw this as a convenient excuse for getting rid of the van. They’ve been angling to dump her for years now.

In the decade we’ve had her, the van has sustained some battle wounds. Someone backed into it in a parking lot once, which we never bothered reporting to the insurance company. So we’ve just had a gigantic dent in the side for about seven years now. Also, she has a pretty nasty scrape from when Lauren first got her license and brushed up against a brick wall. Once the entire transmission went out and in a glimmer of hopeful thinking, we thought she might be out of out lives forever. My dad managed to secure a brand new engine, proudly announcing that she had “Another 100,000 miles left in her!”  We managed one half-hearted “yay” before slumping into self-pity.  She is operable now, but don’t try and roll the windows down because they won’t roll back up. And sometimes the keys randomly fall out of the ignition. Oh and did I mention the heater doesn’t work?

Now an interesting set of effects arise when you ride around in a moving embarrassment. Most notably, has been the emergence of the phrase: “Oh well, it’s just the van.”. As in, “Should I take the time to make a three-point turn, or should I gently scrape up against this wall to avoid reversing…. oh well, it’s just the van.” Or for instance, “It’s really dark out here and I can’t see the auto-lock button, should I just leave it unlocked all night? …. Oh well, it’s just the van.” 

Now while I drive, I don’t look for songs on my ipod because no matter what hot new song I’m listening to, I drive a mini-van. So I just listen to NPR now. And when I’m not exchanging knowing glances with high-schoolers at stoplights, I’m generally fantasizing about ways to get rid of the van. Usually it involves me getting into an accident that isn’t my fault, or just driving it off a cliff. That would be my fault, but watching the twisted metal contort in a heap of burning rubber would give me ultimate satisfaction. (And no, I wouldn’t die in the crash because I would tie a brick to the accelerator and jump out at the last minute). Once I asked Lauren what she thought the chances were of the van getting stolen if we left it unlocked. She too, responded with a question: “Do you know any soccer moms that participate in auto-theft? Because if you do, I think we have a great chance.” Point and Match. 

So the take-home point (besides setting up a playlist on your ipod before leaving the house), is that sometimes in life-- you just have to laugh at your circumstances. I used to drive the van and duck down every time I saw someone I knew. I would linger behind groups and then sneak away to the car when no one was looking. But now, even though this is a mortifying experience-- I’m learning to laugh at myself. More than that, I’m learning to laugh at my mistakes. I think sometimes it’s easy to become so fixated on failure, on embarrassment, or on the perceptions of others, that we forget to just live our lives. The fear of failure, or of looking stupid, becomes the thing that confines us to a life punctuated by hesitation. The van is symbolic of a life spent worrying what other people think, and more recently of a big mistake I made. But I’m learning that it really doesn’t matter. If you can laugh at yourself, if you can learn from the past-- you’ll be able to see the bright side of anything. As Al Franken said in “Oh, the Things I Know”, “Mistakes are a part of being human. Appreciate your mistakes for what they are; precious life lessons that can only be learned the hard way. Unless it’s a fatal mistake, which, at least, others can learn from.” So in that vein, safe driving everyone!  And if you see someone driving a mini-van with a crazed look in their eye, think of me! :) 

Adventures Growing Up

I’m 21 (and a half) years old. I guess that makes me an adult? I can drive, I can vote, I have a credit card, I pay bills. Somehow I always thought I would feel like a grownup by now, but I still feel like the little girl that tried to show off at her dance recital and ended up falling off the stage. Besides prompting an abrupt and permanent shift from dance to contact sports, little has changed since that literal fall from grace.  I still feel like I’m spinning out of control from time to time. Part of the problem, I think, is that sometimes we assume growing up happens all at once. If you consider yourself an adult, it’s easy to assume you don’t have any more growing to do.  I’m starting to realize that growing up is an adventure, one that happens in episodic lessons.

Sometimes these lessons come in a funny way. For example, my sister and I often disagree about how to handle our shared expenses. Now I admire my sister’s frugality for the most part-- she’s no frivolous spender, people. But sometimes, we can’t help but disagree about which type of things are really worth spending money on. For example, we have a sponge in our kitchen and occasionally that sponge starts to smell like whatever its been washing for the past weeks. The little food particles get trapped into the sponge creating a distinct smell known in our house as sponge rot. The following interaction occurred the other day:

As we’re cleaning dishes. “Lauren, this sponge is nasty. We need a new one.”

“It’s fine.”

“It smells like a dead animal.”

“It still works.”

“So does used floss, that doesn’t mean you don’t get a new pack. This is unsanitary.”

“Laine, just wash your hands off after.”

“Fine. I’ll do that…” If they haven’t corroded from whatever fungus is growing on them now.

Or consider another example, this event occurred near the beginning of fall when it was technically cool enough to roll the windows down instead of turning on the air conditioning. Now I’m the type of person who will turn the air on if it’s above 65 degrees, forget how much gas it wastes. “Roughing it” is when the air is on low. Lauren on the other hand, enjoys the wild breeze and the fringe benefit of saving money. Sometimes, however, unexpected consequences occur from this practice. We were riding in the car, with the windows down when Lauren noticed a bee right behind me in the backseat. Of course my first instinct was to smash it. The potential of getting stung increases exponentially in a confined space. You would think this reality would create an extra sense of caution. After all, it’s not like I could run away. But it doesn’t create caution, it creates frenzy. Lauren saw my hand reaching for the empty plastic water bottle in the cup holder.

“Laine, don’t try to smash it. You’re going to make it mad.”

This warning was drown out by my piercing voice screaming, “BEE!!!!!!!”

With a shaky hand, I turned around and craned my arm to the backseat window. I slowly positioned the bottle until it was right over the bee. Before he had a chance to retreat, I swiftly lowered my weapon of choice onto his poor soul. Now what I didn’t calculate was that the bottom of a bottle is not an even surface, it has convex and concave parts. This proved to be very unfortunate error.

“Did you get him?????” Lauren asked, not daring to take her eyes off the road.

“HE’S IN THE GROOVE!”

“WHAT?!”

“HE’S IN THE GROOVE OF THE BOTTLE! OH MY- AHHHHH HE’S SQUIRMING OUT!!”

“LAINE!!!! NOW’S HE ANGRY!!!! I TOLD YOU NOT TO!!!!”

At this point, I retreated all limbs to the front seat. I needed a new weapon quickly, the bee was mad and he was coming for me. I looked down the the floor: four more empty water bottles, a couple of receipts, and an old pen cap.

“Where are the weapons?!” I shouted this at Lauren expecting her to follow. “I need ammo!”

“Just kill it!!!!!”

“With what?!?! This pen cap? Should I have a little sword fight with his stinger!!?”

“I knew this was going to happen! I TOLD you not to hit it!!”

“Well you know what Lauren, this never would have happened if you wouldn’t try to  save money by rolling down the windows. Just use the AC!!! Why can’t we use the AC- no bee has ever made it through the-”

“IT’S COMING!!!”

By this time the bee had made a line drive for the front seat. He was coming at me. In a last ditch effort, I grabbed the bottle again. Come on cheap plastic Kroger brand, do your job. I swung the bottle wildly, managing to create enough wind power to blow all the other receipts on the dash up into the air. One of the errant swings made contact, however, and the bee went down. I transitioned the bottle from a broad sword motion into a frenzied stabbing motion. Once I saw I piece of wing fall off, I slowly lifted the bottle back. He squirmed a few more times, and then lay motionless. Needless to say, the windows haven’t been rolled down since.

Another distinct challenge of independent, adult life is cooking. My sister has proven herself to be quite the gourmet, creating dishes like “Pan-seared Salmon with Pomegranate Reduction”. Meanwhile, in my dark corner of the kitchen, I struggle to properly operate a can opener.  My only attempt at salmon resulted in a description of “good….maybe a little dry.” This resulted in the overreaction of the century, which culminated in my vowing “never to cook again.” Who knew growing up could be so hard? My most recent endeavor in the kitchen was with chili and cornbread. I decided to make chili in the crockpot and cornbread from a box mix. On a side note, I realized that there is a very important distinction between cooking and assembling. All the things I cook, are really exercises in properly assembling the right ingredients. So if you want nachos or pizza, come over. The chili consisted in dumping a bunch of ingredients in the crockpot and turning it on. Done. I decided to stick with a box mix for the cornbread. Now all was going according to plan until the content of the crockpot started boiling over. I thought it was all just supposed to slowly simmer together to create an aromatic blend of ingredients. Instead, the contents were looking like boiling vomit lava. And the cheese I added was burning on the sides of the crockpot. I turned it down lower to stop the bubbling from pushing off the top of the pot in volcanic fashion. At this point, my kitchen senses ran out. I thought, Maybe I should taste it to make sure it isn’t burnt? Never mind that it was boiling literally one second ago. I should definitely taste it. Technically I ate the chili, although I didn’t taste any of it because my taste buds all burned off before I could register any flavor. The cornbread was slightly more of a success. My sister commented, “It doesn’t taste gluten-free. And by “gluten-free” I mean disgusting.”

“Oh good, I’m glad my allergy isn’t an inconvenience to you.” We both agreed that this meal was a marked improvement from previous attempts at domesticity. Maybe someday I’ll actually learn to cook something without burning it or injuring myself.

American actor Woody Harrelson once observed that “A grownup is a child with layers on.” This definition of how we transition into adulthood might be the most accurate I’ve heard. Each experience, each seemingly failed attempt, adds a layer of experience whereby we grow into the person we are meant to be. Most of the time I still feel like that little girl spinning closer and closer to the edge. I currently have 12 unheard voice mails and 9 text messages i haven’t responded to, my gas tank is always on empty, my room looks like a disaster-relief zone,  I routinely lose my keys, I have about eight containers of food in my pantry with less than one bite left, and I haven’t done homework in over a week. But at least I took a shower today, let’s celebrate progress. Sometimes I’m tempted to feel like I’m less of an adult because of these things, but maybe I’m missing the point? Maybe it’s not about having every detail under control all the time, or having a plan, or knowing how to respond to every curve ball life throws at you. Maybe it’s simply about letting life add another layer in the way it chooses, trusting that the ultimate plan will take its course over time. Red wood trees are known to have base circumferences of over 100 feet, and yet each ring added to the collective expanse of the tree is added one layer at a time. Over time, after many growing seasons, the tree reaches maturity. I’m learning that growing up isn’t always predictable, it isn’t always easy. Sometimes you get lucky and life’s lessons come in laughter. Sometimes they’re ushered in with tears. Sometimes you learn them with your best friends and sometimes you have to stand alone. Like the redwoods, however, each growing season serves to add another layer of experience that ultimately transforms to maturity. Maybe by the end of my life I’ll finally feel like an adult. And if nothing else, at least I’ll have a biological excuse for forgetting things!