Dinnertime

“Dinner!” A brief pause, then a short punctuated, “Girls! Dinner!”
“Tara,” I sigh, “time to eat.”
No response. Typical.
As I make my way through our long, ranch-styled house, I can hear my mother say, “Patrick, they’re not coming.”
“I’m right here!” I announce, a little too disgustedly.
I take my place at the table between Brennan and my mom while assuring her that “Tara’s on her way. I swear.”

“The meat might be too well done,” my mother frets.
“You like it well done,” I remind her.
“Well, I know, but I’m the only one. You try it, Patrick. Is it too well done for you?”
My father sighs and replies automatically, “It’s perfect, April.”
“You didn’t even take a bite. You didn’t even look at it.”
“Do we have to go through this every meal?” Brennan pipes up. “Everything’s great, Mom.”
Tara finally wanders into the kitchen. “You don’t even like steak, Brennan.”
“Well, duh. But if I did, I’d think the steak was great.”

Tara slides into her chair while continuing a conversation she and I had been discussing several hours ago. “So anyway, when I went shopping yesterday, I got this new shirt. It’s really cute—kinda sheer and it has these—”

“Patrick,” my mother declares, “before we go on vacation next week, you need to fix this window.”
My father gives a snort of disgust. “It’s on the passenger side of the car. That means it’s your window. That means you need to fix it.”
“It doesn’t roll down. It really needs to be fixed. … I tell you, if you sat on the passenger side of the car while I drove, this window would be fixed in no time.” After getting no response she continues, “Yup…no doubt about it. Fixed in no time.”
“April, call and set up an appointment to get it fixed.”
“Oh no, I don’t want to do that. I want you to fix it.”
“I can see it now. If I go before you, April, and the window isn’t fixed, you’ll be completely helpless.” His voice takes on an outrageously falsetto tone as he cries, “The window isn’t fixed, whatever shall I do? Aaaaugh!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mom laughs.
“I’m not being ridiculous. I’m being you.”
“No, no. I mean don’t be ridiculous—I wouldn’t have to worry about it because I’d just buy a new car.”

“So it’s kinda sheer and has these button thingies with sleeves that go to just below the elbow,” Tara continues.
“I know exactly what you mean,” I respond as I ladle some corn onto my plate. “I can see it perfectly in my head. Is it black?”
“Er … no.”
“Oh. Well, then, never mind.”
“Where are you getting the money to buy these clothes?” my father interjects suspiciously.
“Um, hel-lo! I have a job and get a paycheck and everything.”
“Shouldn’t you be saving your money for more important things? Don’t you have enough clothes?”
“No, that’s Erica. I barely have any.”
“Right.” He rolls his eyes.
“Where’d you buy it?” my mother inquires brightly.
“Vanity.”
Brennan interjects, “It doesn’t bother you that you purchase your clothing from a store telling you you’re vain?”
Tara ignores him entirely, so I take it upon myself to answer. “You know, you’d think it would, but sadly enough, I actually really like the name.” I twirl my hair and snap my gum while exaggerating a Valley girl accent. “Does that, like, make me, you know, like, shallow?”
“I don’t know about shallow, but it definitely makes you an idiot,” Brennan diagnoses helpfully.

My mother takes control of the conversation. “Speaking of idiots, Brennan, as soon as your dishes are done, you’ve got to clean up that mess in the sun porch that you and the guys made yesterday.”
“That’s not my mess! It was already messy when we went in there.”
“That’s only because it was still messy from you guys the day before.”
“Ryan doesn’t have to do anything around his house!” Brennan whines. “Why should I have to?”
“Isn’t Ryan the one who was going to let his rabbit starve to death because he was too lazy to feed it?” Tara interrupts.
“Yeah,” Brennan confirms. “He’s an idiot.”
“Well, that settles that. Erica, have some corn.”
“I had some, Mom. I already ate them.”
“Have some more.”

I’m torn between whining, “But I don’t wanna!” and acting my age. Maturity wins. “Mom, please. I’m 21. I’ll decide if I want more vegetables.”
“You know, if you’d eaten your veggies when you were a kid you’d be taller than 5-foot-two.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, but then all my pants would be too short. Come on, not this again!”

She changed tactics. “You’re being awful quiet, Patrick,” my mom informs him.
“Sorry.” Tara and I exchange a glance over the now-empty bowl of mashed potatoes. I don’t remember a meal in the last two decades where my mom hasn’t notified my dad he was being abnormally quiet. If he ever snaps out of it and contributes to the frenzied discourse of an Acton meal as much as the rest of us, I’ll probably choke on my carrots and die of shock.

“Hey, you know what?” my mom asks. “I think this is the first meal in months that we’ve had with no outside interruptions. Mark that one down in the record books!” And then, just as she begins to stand up, the phone rings.
She slumps back in her chair and motions for Brennan, Mr. Popular, to get the phone. “I spoke too soon.”
“Yeah,” Brennan adds, as the rest of us move to begin the dishes. “But at least the meat wasn’t overcooked.”

Erica's Typing

Today at the student union, I heard two girls talking about their sorority sister. "Erica types so loud!" one shrieked.

"Erica," the other announced authoritatively (it was obvious she was the roommate--the expert--from her tone), "pounds the keyboard like it's a piano!" She slammed both hands down for emphasis.

I don't know these girls and these girls certainly don't know how I type, but I made myself promise that I wouldn't pummel the keyboard as I usually do, but instead gently tap the keys the next time I have a paper due.

Overheard dialogue

: The SuRpRisE PaRTy

“I’ve got the crepe paper and Natty’s got the balloons,” Kim announced, charging through to the apartment across the hall.”

“Move out, troops. Operation: Rochelle’s birthday has commenced.”

“I can’t reach anything,” I complained. “I have to stand on the furniture to do the crepe paper.”
“Help with balloons,” Ashley directed.
“But Kim and Natty are doing that. I’ll be in charge of the tape,” I decided, picking up the Scotch tape.
“Stop the chitchatting,” Kim ordered. “She’s gonna be back any second. Tape!”
“I think we’ve got a few minutes. She told Erica she wouldn’t be back till closer to 7:00. Tape!” Ashley responded.

“Tape, please!” Natty sang from across the room. After handing her the piece of Scotch tape, we looked around. “I’ve only got one more balloon,” she announced to the room. “Where should I put it?”
“Hang it from that crepe paper that goes from one corner to the other,” I suggested.
“That’ll look stupid.”
“So? Who cares? That’s the point.”

As she taped the balloon to the crepe, the entire streamer fell down.
“Shit!” Ashley screeched from across the room. “Now you’ve done it!”
She struggled to reattach it to the ceiling while I got the tape ready. “I can’t reach it!” she huffed and puffed. “It’s too high!”
“Ash, it doesn’t have to be taped to the ceiling. Just tape it to the wall.”
“That’ll look stupid!”
“What is it with you people? What are we, a professional party service? Rochelle is not going to come in here and say, ‘That streamer’s not attached to the ceiling; it looks terrible!’ She’s not even gonna notice.” Ashley ignored me and hung it to the ceiling.

“Finished,” Kim declared.
We oohed and aahed and squealed and exclaimed over our work, then turned off the lights and sat down to wait for Ro to get home. After about two minutes, I whispered, “I’m bored.”
“Shh!” three other voices told me.
“How about if someone’s lookout?” Kim suggested.
Ashley manned the front window. “With the candle burning over there it looks like a scene out of Sleeping Beauty. ‘Touch the spindle of the spinning wheel!’” she commanded.
This caused Natty and me to get the giggles.

“She’s coming, she’s coming,” Ashley cried. “Here comes her car.”
We ran to resume our places and Kim and I pulled out our cameras. I couldn’t stop laughing. “Shh!” Ashley cautioned.
“She’s not coming yet,” I managed to say through my laughter. “First she’s gotta park her car and get her bag.”
Kim, Ashley and Natty exploded into laughter.
“What’s so funny?” I huffed.
“Shh! Shh! She’s coming, I heard the outside door.”
A second later the key was in the lock. Then—

“SURPRISE!”

CuRly hAiR

I have always been obsessed with people’s hair, perhaps because I’m convinced there is a connection between a person’s hair and how that person defines him or herself. Growing up, each girl in my classes had different hair. Some had blonde, dark brown, light brown. Chocolate-colored, caramel-colored, the shade of fire and the shade of straw. Some had long hair, pouring down their backs like a waterfall; some had short Tinkerbell pixie cuts. Some had short hair chopped off at the chin or at the shoulders. The only similarity was that every girl had straight hair. Everyone … except one.

When Iowa’s atmosphere turns heavy and humid and anything moveable begins to react to the sauna that is summer in the Midwest, my hair balloons into a giant tent around my head. It takes on a life of its own, and I’ll always remember an acquaintance’s comment, “Your hair is eating your head!” On rainy days and through the summers, I could always feel my self-confidence plummeting as my hair rose. Why couldn’t I just have straight hair like all the normal girls?

College is an amazing thing. In some ways it forces and in other ways it allows you to become yourself. I spent years of my childhood fighting Mother Nature armed only with a hairdryer, a straightener, and FrizzEase (thank you, John Frieda!) Nights spent out and about with friends in college proved that early morning wake-up call was just too early, and an amazing thing happened: I stopped straightening my hair.

My friends began to call me Pigpen due to the state of frizz and curls and general chaos my hair is in upon wakening every morning and although I tried to fix this, nothing worked. (Pulling it into a ponytail only makes the shorter hairs fall out and stick straight up). At first I was embarrassed by my general state, but then I gradually came to terms with it.

Slowly but surely I began to wear it curly everyday—not just on mornings I woke up late. And slowly but surely I began to (gasp!) like it. Four years later and I can’t even remember the last time I wore my hair straight. Now when it gets curly, I point it out and laugh at myself. I buy myself Pigpen T-shirts and egg on the jokes.

This is only one of my many unwelcome qualities, and not to say it’s gone—I still have bad hair days. Some days, I wake up and look in the mirror, shriek, and still want to run and hide under the covers. The difference is what I saw as a curse when I was a kid is now something I allow myself to feel good about. Now instead of hiding under the covers or repressing with a straightener, I force myself to look in the mirror. And smile. And face the undesirable qualities. They are what make me me. And somehow, by the end of the day, those characteristics become personally distinctive and are almost … yes, appreciated.

Grown-up

Yesterday I went to a funeral by myself for the first time. Does this make me a grown-up?

In the Scrapbook of my Mind

Today I went to visit my friend Jenny. Jenny hasn’t been my roommate since freshman year, and although that was more than three years ago, sometimes it still feels like I’ll go home to find Jenny sitting at her computer typing away on aol while telling me a story about a “stupid boy” and asking if she can borrow my black boots—“you know, the going out ones.”

The reality is that, although when we get together, we giggle and gossip like we’ve never been separated, we rarely see each other now. We try to have lunch a couple times a semester and talk on the phone a handful of times, but she has her friends and I have mine, and although our groups wave and say hi to each other, we rarely all hang out together.

Anytime I see her, I immediately begin reminiscing about the year we lived together; the year we knew each other inside and out. I always think of the time we stayed up until four a.m. “studying” for our 7:30 a.m. final exam in American politics. “It’s impossible to study without making Velveeta shells and cheese, giving each other pedicures, and talking about our families,” we rationalized all night long. I think about how we never once said good night to each other all year long because we would chatter long into the night until one of us finally dropped off to sleep. I think about how I would tease her for being a computer geek and she would ridicule my addiction to soap operas. I remember how we would instant messenger each other even though our desks were close enough we could have reached out and touched each other. I remember tuning into MTV’s Undressed and not being able to turn it off despite our unanimous vote it was hideous. “It’s like a train wreck,” we would patiently explain to our friends, “you can’t not look at it.” “Yeah,” the other would chime in, “it’s so bad, it’s good.” I reminisce on our super hero names—Super Curl and Phat Girl—and our made up words—churmastotastic—because “great” and “super” just didn’t seem to cover it. I remember how I used to tease her about her fingernails. “You paint them and then immediately take the polish off. Then you paint them again and take the polish off again. I mean, really Jen! What’s the point?” I remember the first night we bonded while sitting on our dorm room floor. “You collected unicorns when you were little? Me too!” “Your mom is an English teacher, speech coach, and drama director? Mine too!” “You were the shortest person in your graduating class? Me too!”

Today we had a conversation the way we used to. I said, “I brought you a package.” I’m sorry about your dad. She said, “Shells and cheese!” My comfort food. You remembered. I said, “Among other things.” Her face twisted and did something indescribable to my throat as she pulled out the stuffed unicorn. “You shouldn’t have.” Thank you. I cleared my throat and said thickly through the fuzz, “I’ll be there on Thursday. Call me if you need anything.” Or call me if you don’t.

And as I left her, walking the long dark sidewalk to the street and watching the glittering reflections of the street lamp bounce off the asphalt, my chest clutched a little as I realized today’s visit was already locked up in the scrapbook of my mind alongside nail polish and MTV and all-nighters, right where it didn’t belong. And my heart wanted to weep a little for her at its finality.

When Your Younger Brother Grows Up

When your younger brother grows up, most likely it will come as a bit of a shock. You will be doing lots of growing up on your own—graduating from high school, moving away to college, developing your own life, staring your college graduation and future in the face—and suddenly you realize that while you were doing all your growing up, alas! Time did not stand still and your younger brother is indeed growing into his own person.

You’re shocked when you wander into his room one day and he’s watching … MTV?!? He’s far too young for that, you think, and just when the words begin to form on your lips, you suddenly realize he’s fifteen. When you were fifteen you were nearly all grown up, a young adult with a job and school driving permit making your own choices. Is it possible that he is nearly all grown up?

Now that you stop and think about it, the evidence if mounting. Remember the time you went to see Lord of the Rings with him, and amidst all the swashbuckling and swordfighting and intricate plot and numerous characters with names beginning with ‘G,’ you find that you have no idea what the hell is going on. And just when you’ve come to terms with this, and have decided to instead focus on the eye candy, er—actors, the younger brother leans over and whispers, “That guy’s had the ring for years and has gone mad from its power.” You look over in shocked silence. He obviously knows what’s going on and you don’t. In other words, he knows what’s going on and you don’t. He’s the more informed, the expert, the one with the answers. And, even more shocking, instead of feeling as if you’ve gone through the Twilight Zone or come out the wrong end of a timewarp, you’re … impressed.

Gradually you become more aware of the person he’s turning into. He makes you laugh—and now it’s not just because he says stupid but hilarious remarks, but because he’s actually funny. His emails have the wry, off-the-wall tone distinctive to the other entertainer in the family; your sister. He can impersonate many actors and is especially good at never breaking character.

And now, you are not the only one looking out for others. Now when you go to see movies, he leans over and whispers to you, “You may want to leave. You’re not gonna like this scene coming up.” But when you don’t, and spiders the size of houses begin scuttling across the screen, he pats your arm and asks gently, “Do we need to leave?” as you convulse and shake your limbs to get the hairy gigantic arachnids that are now crawling on you off. Afterwards, he doesn’t even say, I told you so.

But despite all this, you still go home and discover the crumbs and spills all over the floor that he and his posse left for you. You find yourself wanting to smack him or at the very least shake some sense into him. But instead, you satisfy yourself with giving him a lecture on responsibility and cleanliness, culminating with a scream, “What’s wrong with you?” And suddenly, you’re transported back 15 years and in your mind’s eye, you see the puckered face of the newborn brother with his shiny, perfect nose and eyes squinted shut, and his tiny, pink fist wrapped around your pinky finger. You cringe at the memory of the day your six-year-old self accidentally dropped him and the hysterical weeping in the locked bathroom that followed. You remember the time you lost him for thirty seconds in Hallmark and the panic-edged horror that chomped your heart. You remember your first year of college when he called to tell you he loved you and missed you. And the answer to your own question hovers in your heart. What’s wrong with him? Absolutely nothing.