Twister

The summer before 10^th grade, I moved from Texas to Moore, Oklahoma. That fall, I joined the throng of pimply-faced, jean-overall-wearing, sketcher-rocking 14yr olds starting our high school years. In the first period of the first day, I met Jen. She was a transplant too (from California), only knew a handful of people in the school, and looked every bit as nervous as I felt.
She had long, black Shirley Temple corkscrew curls pinned back from her face, framing her freckled face and shy smile. She sat in the very last seat of the very last row of Intro to English; I immediately sat by her, relieved to see someone who looked friendly and unattached to 40 of their best girl friends. I said something really cool and witty like, “You have curly hair. I don’t. I’m new. I bet you couldn’t guess.” At any rate, we became fast friends.

Moore became the backdrop of our friendship. We logged hour after hour at the local mall, ate at the locally owned fast food restaurants, drove the empty evening streets of the loosely connected 80s neighborhoods. We were too cool to be seen with our parents, so every day after school, we walked blocks away from the football field to meet my dad for a ride a home. Every weekend spent at her house, we wandered listlessly from convenient store to novelty shop, reveling in the freedom a 16 yr old believes she has. We worked together at a political polling firm, equally hating it with every fiber of our being and simultaneously loving the freedom our paychecks bought us. Freedom as defined by the ability to buy CoverGirl products with our own money, but still! FREEDOM.

Being the popular, up-to-the-minute girls we were, we spent Senior Skip Day at a local antique store. We commemorated prom with a family style dinner at an Italian chain; my date forgot his wallet, Jen paid for us both. We ditched our dates for several dances, threw caution to the wind, slurped down complimentary cherry cokes, and danced the evening away like the white girls we are. At graduation, we sat in the same row, our Honors white gowns billowing around our crossed ankles, crying big ugly tears of happiness and sadness…excited to see what our futures held, sad to say goodbye to the daily ritual of high school best friends who are thoroughly familiar with one another from our handwriting to our favorite vending machine snacks to our biggest adult fears.

We were both reporters for the school newspaper, The Lion’s Roar, eventually becoming co-editors. We spent nearly every weekend at one another’s house writing angst-ridden teen poetry, watching hopelessly unrealistic romance movies, and talking about everything from the possibility of aliens to our views on God. We knew one another’s families intimately, going on family vacations nearly every year. She was one of the last friends to meet my grandmother before her death. She told me, in the darkness of midnight, as we lay on pallets in her living room, that she fervently believed the ghost of her grandmother visited her home, often stopping by a vase of memorial roses on the fireplace mantel. The air crackled around us, these infinite moments shaping our world views with the yellow, fuzzy nostalgia that eventually wears thin with age and experience.

As the school year came to a close, we scheduled our Learner’s Permits tests and made elaborate plans to spend the summer with the windows down, the music up, and our hair blowing in the wind. Instead, the May 3^rd, 1999 F-5 tornado tore through the sleepy suburb of Moore, our hometown. The entire town was demolished, houses whisked away in the windy mile-wide vortex. As my mom and I hid in the bedroom closet, holding hands and praying, I remember manically hoping Jen was safe.

After the terror was over, we emerged to a new world of pure destruction. The news shots didn’t do justice to the damage. Enormous stone buildings were reduced to teeny piles of grainy sand, whole 18 wheelers were scrunched into harmless balls of tin, and lives were lost. In 1999, cell phones were rare among the common so Jen and I didn’t have the luxury of texting our safety stats. Instead, I poured over newspaper listings of the storm related deaths, always holding my breath until I scanned beyond her last name without seeing her family listed.

Eventually the phone lines were restored, and we made contact. Luckily, we were both ok, our families spared. Years later, her family would move to Arizona and we’d briefly lose touch. But, in the way of Oklahoma, a natural disaster would prompt me to search for her online, find her, and reconnect.

Today, she is the mother of two beautiful twin children, a boy and a girl. She’s a gifted teacher, caregiver, and leader in an adult trade center. We remain the best of friends, reminded of our teenage bond and continuing friendship every time we hear the distant rumble of thunder.

Come what may, we’re the very best of friends, we’ve survivors, after all.

All in the Family

It’s a sleepy day; the overcast sky is a washed out, flat gray. Thick clouds are spitting freezing rain and everyone is running, head down, to the nearest entrance. Jackets and mufflers are spattered with tiny ice droplets and everyone’s hair is matted down in wet tangles. On days like this, my mind always turns to babies. I think it’s the sadness of the bleary day that magnifies the sadness of knowing I’ll never give birth to a baby.

We’ll never experience the magic of sweaty palms and tingly stomachs as we hold hands and wait for two pink lines to appear. Together, we’ll never have that moment when we realize, “This is real, this is it! We’re going to be parents! We’re going to be someone’s mommy and daddy!” We won’t have funny stories to share of my pickle and grape jelly cravings at 2am or him eating take-out food in the garage because I couldn’t stomach the smell. I won’t have the gauzy, glowing memory of seeing our tiny baby for the very first time on a blurry, black and white ultrasound screen. I won’t pour over “What to Expect When You’re Expecting” books, wondering if it’s normal to have an achy back, dull hair, and fat feet. I will never know the joy of feeling a brand new human moving for the very first time, aimlessly passing the months with teensy kicks and jabs. The baby book won’t be filled with endless pictures of my growing belly. I’ll never experience the bliss that comes when all the hard work has paid off, the pain has subsided, and my itty bitty baby, all pink and squinty, is handed to me.

We’ll never be able to play that game of “Oh, she has your nose and your mom’s ears! And, I’m sad to report, your Uncle Vern’s toes.” As she grows up, as babies inevitably do, we won’t find ourselves blaming her quirky personality traits on one another’s family genes. If she’s particularly flighty, we won’t say, “Typical, just like a White, through and through.” When she makes straight A’s, we won’t playfully argue over which of us passed our brains along to her, though it would be me, of that I’m certain.

But, and it’s a big but, through the world of adoption, we can have our baby! Should we be so blessed to be chosen as parents, I hope our daughter knows that she is no less loved, no less wanted than if she were our own biological child. In fact, we may want her even more due to the fact that we have spent years trying everything within our power to get her. I hope she knows that even though she won’t have my nose or her Daddy’s soft voice, she’ll have free run of our hearts, our attention, and our happiness.

The nursery she’ll come home to will be filled with pictures, fuzzy around the edges with age, of people who loved her long before she existed; white haired grandmas who held me close while I cried, worried that she would never be ours. Tall, beefy uncles who clipped newspaper articles about adoption agencies and offered financial advice. Sweet, brown-eyed cousins who took us out to dinner to offer their support. Mothers who listened to every word of fear and uncertainty, multiple times, and still responded with, “It’ll happen. It will.” without a twinge of doubt in their voices.  Dads who never tired of hearing the doubts, and always offered full support.

No, her baby book won’t have monthly in utero growth updates. But, it WILL be filled with notes from us telling her how much we want her, how excited we are to meet her, how very loved she is. We’ll balance out all that kitten, rainbows, and chocolate chip filled whimsy with helpful hints about the family she’ll call her own. Hint: Mama CANNOT sing but that doesn’t stop her from belting out Elvis hits at the top of her lungs. Also? Daddy can’t merge into traffic without losing his ever-loving mind. The binding will be stretched and frayed, the pages stuffed with pictures of her big brothers, who if it helps at all, don’t resemble one another any more than she’ll resemble us. Along with the pictures will be stories of the two amazing great grandmas she’ll be named after: ladies from a bygone era who left a legacy of strength, humor, and resiliency. Lorraine who, at age of 50, decided she wanted to be a nurse and so that’s just what she did, graduating at the top of her class. And Addie, who lived to the ripe old age of 90 and surrounded herself and all of her life in bright cherry red happiness, loving everyone so hard, she almost made your heart burst.

THIS, this is the family she’ll be born into. We may not all be biologically related, but we love each other fiercely, rejoice in one another’s happiness, and support each other in our moments of sadness. And, really, isn’t that what family is all about? Not a similarly shaped face or the unfortunate curse of male pattern baldness, but a shared sense of  friendship that runs so deep, these people become pieces of our hearts, forever a part of our very essence. And trust me on this, it’s a Bible-beating, old time religion miracle if anyone can manage to escape the curse of inheriting my skin or B's teeth.

To make up for missing all those pre-birth belly dances and karate kicks, I have firm plans to pinch her cheeks and tussle her soft, fuzzy head until I get my fill, which I’m not sorry to say kiddo, won’t happen. I hope she won’t mind a quick hair tussle on her 30^th birthday or a cheek squeeze on her 50^th. And when she’s here, we won’t think another thought about what we “missed.” We’ll be too busy welcoming our baby girl to the world.

Milo and Otis's 101 Ways to Terrorize the 'Hood

Dear Sir,

Your dogs are very cute and appear to be quite lovable scamps. But, there’s always a “but” isn’t there? But, they are free roam wherever their hearts desire for the better part of each day. Unfortunately, this desire is apparently to be ramblin’ dogs, rolling stones, restless souls. While I think we can all agree that it’s one of life’s greatest joys to watch Old Yellar and Lassie bound through ponds and yip at one another as they undertake life’s great adventure, it’s equally not fun to clean up trash strewn over 19 acres of land because these very same enchanting dogs have toppled our garbage cans over for the 12^th time this week. It’s also a bummer to step out of our front door at 6am to let our dog relieve himself only to have him assailed by your pack of waiting dogs. The postman agrees, being chased by your 7 (!) dogs anytime any of us leaves the comfort of our homes or cars is an unnecessary irritant. Perhaps we’ve misread your crew. It’s quite possible their lungs are full of the wandering Oklahoma wind and their hearts swell with the bliss only a dog and his bone can fully understand. Even still, this ecstasy is demonstrated in ways we simply can no longer tolerate.

I think you’ll agree, on the list of the Top 10 Ways to Not Ring in a New Year is being awoken at 8am by Marley and Company vigorously barrel rolling into properly stored trash canisters in an attempt to topple them over. This morning fun was followed up by our dog, kept inside our home for our neighbors’ convenience, barking for the next 2 hours as your dogs used our porch as their personal dog run.

Please keep your dogs on your property or assist our entire neighborhood in cleaning up the trash your dogs tear through EVERY.SINGLE.WEEK. We love dogs. We just also love our trash to remain in the rubbish bins and our walkways to remain free from ankle-deep mounds of fresh, steaming excrement. I have a dream, a dream in which your 7 (!) best friends and our neighborhood’s four-legged family members can romp and play freely in their respective yards without the stray holiday turkey carcass, empty wrapping paper tubes, dirty diapers, and coffee grounds from our collective garbage being strung from here to Shawnee.   

We agree, all dogs go to heaven, they are man’s best friend, and they are downright cute. Please don’t let your dogs change this view for us.  If we have to, we will not hesitate to punch a puppy right in his face.

 Sincerely,

Your Neighbors

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Chuck Norris Approved Cover Letter

 

I, Michelle, take you, Oh Mighty Oklahoma Corporation, to be my lawful place of employment. I swear, with God as my witness to bring my extensive experience with logistics, sustainment program management, and mechanical organization to the proverbial table. I can also offer you, if you play your hiring cards right, unparalleled devotion, loyalty, and creativity. I vow to positively contribute daily to the interoffice dynamic, employee morale, customer relations (in the non-Biblical sense because I’m a lady), and overall workplace environment by pledging the following:

While engaging in electronic mail (e-mail) correspondence, I will never “reply to all” when a simple “reply” is sufficient. I think we can all agree, nothing good ever comes from replying to all.

I fervently pledge to remember we live in a fast-paced, technologically advanced society. As such, I will employee interoffice communication devices, e-mail, and when appropriate, personal visits. I will NOT send an e-mail request and immediately follow-up with an instant message, an uninvited desk visit during lunch break, or a rambling voicemail that is cut off after 3 minutes because I spent the first 2 repeating, “Hello? Bob? Are you there? Is this on? I hate hearing myself on voicemail, don’t you?” etc. I also will not kill trees by using carbon copies in triplicate form when a simple e-mail will suffice. As you can surmise, when given the choice, I choose Planet Earth AND comprehensive prevention of rage-inducing snafus.

Once, when employed as a Staffing Representative, I had the unfortunate task of speaking before a federal judge, on behalf of my employer, in a case involving a former employee. To summarize, said employee found his job duties increasingly stressful. Rather than taking full advantage of the company’s wide array of counseling services, he made what would turn out to be an ill-fated decision. Stressed and tired after a hard day’s work, he chose to unwind with 5 pounds of uncut cocaine and a lady of the evening, courtesy of his company credit card. As it turns out, this coping mechanism was deeply frowned upon in corporate culture. Having learned a wise and valuable lesson from these abysmal relaxation techniques, I vow to you that in seasons of pressure and tension, I will choose morally upstanding and fiscally responsible methods of stress management. I fully commit, here and now in front of the entire staff reading this cover letter, to remain drug and prostitute free, especially during, but not limited to, times of employment distress.

I promise to dress professionally and in an age-appropriate manner. This means you will never see me sporting a faux-hawk, hipster horn-rimmed glasses with plastic lenses, the ever popular neckerchief, skinny jeans, knickers, "rompers", or facial tattoos.

I will honor the unspoken social contract of personal space, particularly when in a cubicle setting.

As a stepmother, I have been given the gift of near constant denigration in the form of 2 know-it-all teenagers; I can assure you I can take constructive criticism unlike, shall we say, LeBron James. I vow to strive for continuous self and professional improvement, especially if corporate season tickets to Thunder games are given as a tangible incentive.

While both my military and industry experience have afforded me the qualifications to appropriately utilize buzzwords, jargon, and catchphrases, I vow to never, under most circumstances*, use the following idioms:

• Take that offline
• Core competencies
• Bottom line return on investment
• Out of the loop
• Central belly button
• Customer Centric
• Buck stops here
• At the end of the day
• Shoot for the moon, for if you miss, you’ll still be among the stars

*If one of the listed expressions is all that stands between me and a Buzzword Bingo victory, I shall with a heavy heart, relent.

These are my solemn vows to you, Oh Mighty Oklahoma Corporation.

Thank you for your consideration,
Michelle Jolie-Pitt
President, Team Awesome, 29 Years

My Reverse Bucket List or If I Was Queen of America

1. Never, ever, under any circumstances get roped into participating in a marathon. If ever the need arises to sweat and chafe profusely in front of strangers, remember the joy of bathing suit season at the local clothing boutique. Said urge will immediately dissipate.

2. Accept that Best Picture winners at the Oscars will inevitably be one of the following:

• Too long
• Too “artsy” for anyone other than the director and 5^th year Humanities majors to understand
• Have a coma-inducing plotline rife with unrealistic scenarios, unlikable protagonists, wooden dialogue
• A movie no one in the at-home viewing audience will have ever seen or have a desire to see

3. Spread the message that the promise “Coming Soon” is open to interpretation. Dear Retail Store: what does “soon” mean to you? Soon could be tomorrow or 3 years from now. TELL ME WHEN MY LOCAL BEN N JERRY’S ESTABLISHMENT WILL GRACE ME WITH ITS PRESENCE. TELL ME NOW. Saying you will open “soon” is the retail equivalent of chastely kissing your prom date. Like I did because I’m a lady, DAD.

4. Dole out free throat punches to people who say, “I could care less” when they mean “I couldn’t care less.”

5. Equip all vehicle front bumpers with a Gatling. Deploy fire exchange at any vehicle that is in the right exit lane without needing to exit.

6. Also, anyone in the fast lane who makes subsequent vehicles break cruise control. Go fast or get shot.

7. Disable everyone’s “reply to all” button. Nothing good ever comes from replying to all.

8. When attending a work meeting, always carry a small bag of angry woodpeckers with you. When someone non-ironically employs any of the buzzwords and/or catchphrases listed below, free the woodpeckers. You may choose to jubilantly shout, “RELEASE THE KRAKEN” as the woodpeckers inevitably peck out the eyes of the offending party. Loathed words/phrases:

•        Harvest low-hanging fruit
•        Shoot from the hip
•        Synergy
•        Let’s table this discussion until we can ruminate offline
•        Touch base
•        Buck the system
•        Think outside the box
•        High burner
•        Central belly-button
•        Singing from the same sheet of music

 9. Stop low-flow toilets. Some things require high-flow; this is a great motto for life.

 10. As punishment, when a fellow movie theater patron spends the entire two hour experience exuberantly kicking the back of your chair, force them to take your “I’m-too-cool-to-be-alive” teenager around the block for a short drive. Encourage said teen to spend the car ride listing all the ways his/her parents are stupid and lacking in teenage wisdom and know-how. This is a guaranteed cure; the seat kicker will return mere seconds later with a quivering lip and hollow, vacant eyes. He or she will apologize profusely and promise to never so much as step foot in a public theater again as long as you, The Stupid Parent, take back your teenager. Immediately, if not sooner.

I Will Try To Remember These Things When You Steal My Nachos

I, Michelle, take you, Bobby, to be my lawfully wedded husband. And, I swear, with God as my witness, that I will never abbreviate that title to “hubster” or “hubs,” unless doing so ironically, in a faux cockney accent. Furthermore, I will never call you sickening pet names like Shnookums or My Baby Boo, especially in public settings; this is my solemn vow.
I promise to notice and appreciate the little things you do to make my life easier like opening car doors, mixing the best Pumpkin Coffees, emptying the dishwasher, and cleaning the litter box even after I’ve said I would do it for 5 days straight but haven’t.


I fervently pledge to make humor and friendship a key element in our home. I promise to laugh off more things and take myself less seriously. I vow to give my best effort to caring about the news, even the “talking head” news shows because you love them so. I agree to watch Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man without rolling my eyes. I promise to stop sighing heavily and mumbling in a passive aggressive manner when you “borrow” the kitchen scissors and never put them back. I promise to stop dulling your razors and then secretly returning them to the basket for your use. I will remember that even when we don’t agree, we’re on the same side. I will strive to remember that it’s ok if the pantry isn’t perfect, and my way of folding the towels isn’t necessarily the best way, although it IS the prettiest way. I think we can agree on this point.


I promise to remember how important physicality, chemistry, and passion are in a happy marriage. I will do my part to ensure we remain as excited, enamored, and adoring of one another as we were when we were first falling in love. I promise to listen when you talk and truly hear what you’re saying. I promise to tell you as often as I can how clever, funny, handsome, kind, sweet, sexy, talented, and intelligent you are. I promise to remember and celebrate all the tiny nuances of your personality that make you so unique and wonderful.
I vow to never walk away from a disagreement with you without returning to make it right. I will love your children as my own. I will listen to your dreams, hopes, and goals and meld them with mine so our separate lives become one. I will encourage you when you are feeling overwhelmed. I will make you smile and laugh when you’ve had a rough day and want nothing more than a familiar, loving face. 


I will make you Frito chili pie and perfectly crisp chicken fried steak when you need a cheat day in the worst kind of way. I will eat steamed vegetables with our spaghetti because that’s the way you like it. I will be open to new ideas and adventures, as long as you are by my side. I will spend all of my days making our life as fabulous, fun, and fulfilling as I possibly can. I promise to uplift you to our children; I will tell them often what a great dad they have and remind them of your love for them. I will be your biggest fan, championing your accomplishments.


I will thank God every day that He blessed me with you. I will remember, even when we’re not at our best, that you are my Prince Charming, my true love, my soul mate, my partner, and my best friend. I promise to look at you every day and remember that I got the very best one.


I vow to love you with all of me, heart and soul. I promise to give my all to us and our marriage. I promise to do my part to make our life together flourish, to make our marriage the best decision we ever made.


This is my solemn vow.

Hand Holding: The Gateway to Fornication

Kindergarten marked the first and only year I attended a private, religious school. I don’t remember the name of the school, Tabernacle of Eternal Damnation or something, but I do remember my teacher, Mrs. Starks. She was approximately 8 feet tall, as skinny as skinny could be, and had mounds of curly brown hair that she wore in a massive heaping bun clipped to the side of her head with a pastel bow. I remember thinking her head would snap off from the weight of the side bun, but thankfully, it never did.


My mom worked down the hall in the Pre-K daycare center, and I remember being really aggrieved that I couldn’t just wander down to her classroom any old time I wanted to say “hey” or ask why my PB&J was made with grape instead of apricot jelly, the HORROR. No amount of pleading swayed Mrs. Starks; she was firm on the no-visiting-mom’s-classroom rule, but this didn’t stop me from asking permission every.single.day. for the entire year. I bet that was her favorite part of the day!


Our classroom was co-educational, and I was thrilled that I could sit by BOYS. During naptime, Adrian Delgado and I would snuggle our mats up against one another and furtively hold hands under a shared blanket. One day, Mrs. Starks caught us and told us that Jesus would make our hands rot off if we didn’t stop clasping them with those of the opposite sex before we were grown-ups. It was a chance I was willing to take, but Adrian apparently wasn’t ready for that level of commitment. The next day, he moved his mat ALL the way over to the other side of the classroom during naptime. In retaliation, during out-loud prayer time, I loudly asked Jesus to forgive Adrian for being a booger-picker. I don’t think it was true, but who knows? Maybe it was. At any rate, I was standing in the proverbial salvation gap for Adrian; I was proving my hand-holding worthiness. Still, he was unmoved. We never held hands again.


Every morning, we would line up outside the hallway next to laminated teddy bear cut-outs with our names on them. This took an inordinate amount of time because, as it turned out, kindergarteners couldn’t read. Eventually, Mrs. Starks replaced the bears with new ones that were different colors. From then on, we simply had to locate our teddy bear color to find our spot in the single file line. Once inside the classroom, we spent the morning reciting the Pledge of Allegiance to both the American and Christian flags. Then we counted to 100, recited the alphabet, and sang The States Song. At some point in the day, we played Candyland and ate soggy Fruity Pebbles from white Styrofoam bowls.


During one such snack time, things took a turn for the worse when, in a desperate attempt to get a second-helping, I told Mrs. Starks that Fruity Pebbles was the food I most missed when living in Africa. I then went on to tell her, in detail, about my family’s time in Africa, serving as missionaries. I even told her that we had left the family car with my grandma while we were overseas because we rode everywhere by elephant. My elephant’s name was Curious George. This story was interesting for 2 reasons: My parents were never missionaries in Africa or anywhere else, for that matter, and Mrs. Starks apparently caught on to my lie around the time I chose to name my transportation elephant after a book she had read aloud that very day. The next day, my dad came to my classroom during Sharing Time and made me apologize for lying, in front of the whole class. During Closing Prayer, Adrian Delgado loudly implored Jesus to forgive me for being a liar. Jerk.


Brian Palmer was a tiny little boy in the next class over who, despite Adrian’s warnings, fell madly in love with me halfway through the school year. Despite his embarrassing prayer, I was still holding out hopes of a reconciliation with Adrian, so I never held Brian’s hand. Despite my rebuffs, Brian would often spend recess picking handfuls of dandelions to present to me during Sharing Time. After several days of this wooing, I decided I liked Brian more than I had ever liked Adrian. So, at lunchtime, I told him, “I’m not going to hold your hand, but you can keep giving me flowers.” Even at age 5, I was selfless like that.


At the end of the year, Mrs. Starks organized an official graduation ceremony, complete with baby blue gowns and mortar boards, flower corsages for our mothers, and actual gold-plated trophies. Graduation was a very big deal; my grandma sewed me a floor length pink and purple flowered dress with a big white, ruffled collar. Mama sponge-rolled my hair the night before while Daddy shined my white, patent leather dress shoes. The day of graduation, I secretly picked out the trophy I was hoping to win: the shiny green Perfect Attendance trophy. After presenting our Safety Week poster boards, reciting our numerals, and singing Jesus Loves Me, Mrs. Starks called my name to receive my coveted trophy! In a final display of humble sweetness, I held my trophy high and stuck my tongue out at Adrian.