But don’t think this means I’m going to start updating my status

Thanks to the wonder (or devil, as you like) that is Timeline, I can unequivocally say that today is my 8 year Facebook anniversary.

More than anything else in my life, that makes me feel old.

More than friends having babies; more than getting married; more than the Beloit mindset lists.

More than my impending 10-year high school reunion; more than 19-year-olds in major league baseball.

More than babysitting a kid who says, “Whoa! You were born in the 80s??” with a mix of wonder and horror.

Social networking is what does it.

Congratulations, Facebook. You win.

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Proof that first impressions can be overruled

A year ago today, I said yes. And it was exhilarating.

In the past year, that feeling has only amplified. I’m at the point where I want to sprint down the aisle, just so I get there faster.

(I won’t, though, because I don’t sprint well in heels.)

And it makes me laugh to think that if you had asked me four years ago whether or not I’d be marrying BNF, I would have responded: “Marry him? I don’t even like him!“

I first met BNF in 2008 while playing for my company softball team. He had missed the first couple games, but I’d heard about this supposedly amazing shortstop, so I was naturally curious.

During our first game together – him at short, me at second base – we had a chance early on to make a double play. The batter hit a grounder to BNF, and I quickly moved to cover second, prepared to then throw to first.

But the throw never came.

BNF decided to make the play himself, running over second and throwing to first.

(No one remembers, by the way, if the double play was made.)

I was furious. The shortstop I’d played with in BNF’s absence always threw the ball to me. In my mind, BNF must have thought that just because I’m a girl, I couldn’t handle it! The jerk!

Later on at the bar, I was sitting nearby when I heard him declare to the table, “The thing about women is…“

So I turned. “I have to hear this.“

“Hold on a second,” he told me. “How old are you?”

“22.”

“Okay. You don’t know anything.”

And just like that I thought, well, it’s a good thing I don’t have to hang out with him outside of softball!

Fast forward four years, and I can’t even imagine sprinting down the aisle to anyone else.

And it doesn’t hurt that he now throws the ball to me.

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Managing expectations

When I was dating, I would occasionally fall into the classic traps that every woman knows about but cannot seem to always avoid. The most frequent trap went something like this:

Girl and boy hang out, have fun. Boy becomes flaky (because, honestly, he’s just not that into you), girl gets frustrated, vows to not date flakes. Boy reaches out, shows some initiative, girl thinks, “maybe it’ll be different this time, he’s trying!” Wash, rinse, repeat.

It wasn’t fun, but it was a learning experience – in dating, self-esteem, and realistic expectations.

The thing is, I thought that trap no longer existed now that I’m not dating anymore. I clearly forgot about the alternate version, which is actually even more frustrating: the flaky friend trap.

You know the friends. Maybe they live a little farther away, so you actually have to make solid plans to hang out (no impromptu happy hours). Maybe you both have really busy schedules, but you want to keep up the friendship that you’ve had for the better part of your existence.

However, after they cancel on you time and time again, after those solid plans have been made, you lose faith. Sometimes the cancellations are legitimate. Sometimes you justify them, because of course they wouldn’t mean to leave you in the lurch like that.

But the fact remains that you still don’t see each other.

And even when you do, you feel secondary to whatever else they could be doing at that point.

So you manage your expectations. You’re tired of feeling disappointed, so you don’t reach out either. And that seems to be working out. Until they reach out again, excitedly asking what your schedule looks like because they want to hang out. Really, truly this time!

Do you get your hopes up again, and get excited for a visit, making plans and freeing up time?

Or do you take everything they say with a grain of salt, not believing a word until they show up on your doorstep?

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God camp revisited

Every year around this time I give you a heads up that I’ll be taking a blogging break for a week, in order to go hang out with several hundred middle schoolers. This year, as I was thinking about and getting excited for the upcoming week, I also realized that I hadn’t done my July donation yet. And I wondered why I had never donated money to a camp that has been so influential and so important in my life.

YCM, the organization that sponsors The Great Escape (the official God camp name), also allows you to designate your donation to a scholarship fund that allows students the chance to attend camp. And that is where I want my money to go this month.

Being a camper meant the world to me as a 7th and 8th grader. And considering that this is my 12th summer actually working there, I’d say it left a lasting impression.

A little taste of camp: costumes, human foosball, dancing, and skits.

Or I’m just a really bad quitter.

So, in honor of my leaving for camp, and hopefully helping someone else to go in the future, I’ve decided to revisit my very first blog post – the one that got me into blogging in the first place.

Enjoy, and have a great week!

When most people say they’re going away for a week, they’re going on vacation. When I say I’m going away for a week, I’m going to God camp. As a counselor. With 500 middle schoolers.

I don’t think that qualifies as a vacation.

The camp takes place in middle-of-nowhere Pennsylvania. The cool place to hang out is the Super Wal-Mart.

On the one hand, I think it’s great that we can bring all these kids together in a place with minimal distractions. On the other hand, I’m reminded that my very first kiss happened at this same camp over 10 years ago. Middle schoolers only need one another to be distracted.

Maybe because of this, one of the first rules we teach horny teenagers at God camp is as follows: NO PURPLING.

What does that mean, exactly? It’s simple: boys are blue and girls are red. Clever, right?

Now, considering even I grew up with this rule (pretty much every church camp/retreat has it), I never thought much of it. In fact, I figured it made perfect sense when you’re at a religious event — talk to whomever you want, but no making out, etc.

I only realized that this “purple rule” was unique to Christian camps (maybe even specifically to Presbyterian ones), when I was talking to one of my college friends who works at a Jewish sleepaway camp every summer.

She was talking about the summer romances as a camper and as a counselor and I asked, “But what about the no purpling thing?” The look she gave me was one of confusion, and as I started to explain the “boys are blue…” analogy, she started to laugh.

“Well, of course it’s not encouraged,” she said, “but there’s no rule.” (Her past three relationships have started at camp.)

Listen, I’m not naive. I know what goes on when you put over 500 middle schoolers in the same place. There are bound to be hormonal attractions and there are bound to be those bold enough to act on them.

If I had merely my first kiss at camp over 10 years ago, I can’t imagine what’s going on now. Actually, I can, I just don’t want to.

One of the girls I work with at the camp told me about a conversation she’d had with her boyfriend the night before. He, having never been to one of these camps, asked, “So, do you have any ‘one time at God camp’ stories?” And she had to say yes.

She’d been caught making out with a boy from another church — by his leader. It actually came back to bite her in the ass when her little brother was spotted making out with another camper later in the week.

“How am I supposed to tell him to stop, when I got caught doing the same thing?” she asked us.

As wise as we are, collectively, not one of us had a good answer — perhaps because we all have one of those “one time at God camp” stories that prevent us from chiding someone else.

Working at these camps is kind of like being a parent: you lay out the rules, but you know the kids will find a way around them, because that’s exactly what you did when you were their age.

You know (or think you know) all the tricks, and when they come up with new, ingenious way around the rules, you’re annoyed, but also a little bit impressed. (Coupled with that feeling of “Oh man, why didn’t I think of that? Of course the side stairs are better for sneaking out.”)

Sometimes I think, at this point, the purple rule is just tradition. It’s been said at every camp, conference, and retreat, for at least the past 20 years -– a classic.

That doesn’t mean that we don’t try to enforce it (for instance, there are no slow songs at the end of the week dance), but we all know that it will get broken.

It’s just a matter of finding out how.

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In preparation for Mother’s Day

I heard an ad on my Pandora station that said, “Mother’s Day isn’t about celebrating mothers; it’s about celebrating all that your mother has given you.“

And while I think I understand the idea behind the line, I respectfully disagree. Mother’s Day is about celebrating your mother. Sure, part of it may be what she’s done for you, but it’s also about what she does for her and who she is.

You celebrate her for…

…being an amazing role model

…her dedication to her own goals, as well as yours

…putting up with your phone calls while you’re driving, even though you know she doesn’t like it

…being as non-judgmental as possible, even when you tell her something that you’d judge if it were anyone else

…being incredibly supportive

…giving the best advice

…wearing the same size as you do, because closet-shopping during trips home is both fun and cheap

Mama and me circa 1992 - in homemade dresses, no less

…always sending something for the little holidays, just so you still get a taste of home

…having a more vibrant social life than you do (even if the night starts at 4:30 and ends after the NCIS reruns are over)

…living a life that you’re proud to aspire to

…being happy

People have extended their birthdays into birthday weekends, weeks, and months. And yet, we give moms a day.

Sure, that totally seems adequate.

So this time, Mama, and from now on, the parade is for you.

I’ll even let you wave the flag and wear the hat.

I hope you know how much I love you, appreciate you, and want to be like you. Not just this Sunday, this weekend, or this month, but every single day.

And if I call too much? It’s just because I want you to be sure of all of that.

I love you, Mama. Happy Mother’s Day Weekend.

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Who knew retirement parties were such ragers?

When my brother and I were younger, maybe 6 and 8, we tattooed each other with permanent marker while waiting for Dad to pick us up from one of Mom’s meetings.

(The meeting was clearly not in the same room as the tattoo parlor.)

By the time he showed up, we had polka dots, smiley faces, and a variety of odd designs all over our legs and arms. And, while we thought it was hilarious, Dad was not so thrilled – mostly because he thought Mama was going to be upset. So he whisked us over to a friend’s house and proceeded to scrub us until our skin was red. And even then I think there was still a slight echo of polka dots at school the next morning.

It’s only fitting, then, that more than 15 years later we busted out the Sharpie tattoos again – this time at Daddy’s retirement party.

Daddy with all his kids - before everyone else showed up

Back in March, Daddy turned 70 and decided that work was getting in the way of his playtime. So on March 31st he completed his last day of work, and on April 1st he celebrated his first day of retirement. And this past Saturday we all celebrated with him.

In addition to family, there were old work friends, church friends, neighbors, and teammates from all of the softball leagues he’s been in over the years. As the night went on, the scotch was flowing, and the boyfriend decided it would be a good idea to show off his tattooing skills. And everyone else agreed.

Thus began round two of Sharpie tattoos.

From left to right: me with "Popeye"; Mama with Pink Panther; Mama with hers and Daddys initials; BigSis2 with Woody Woodpecker - all courtesy of the boyfriend

And that photo doesn’t even include the neck tattoo or the tramp stamp.

Overall, the party was a huge success. Daddy got a chance to hang out with all of his favorite people, and everybody who stopped by had a blast. I may have initially expected a retirement party to be calm and low key, but I know better now. Especially when my family and Johnny Walker are involved.

Now that it’s over, Daddy can focus on softball (at least one member of our family will hit a home run this year!) and his other retirement project: cleaning out the house via craigslist and eBay.

If I know my father, and I think I do, he’s even more ruthless than Cla, so I’d better get any childhood memories out of the house ASAP.

But I can’t do it all in one swell foop, so just know that I’ve got my eye on you, Daddy.

And please try not to throw out any more home videos.

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Maybe this is why I’m not allowed to control the remote

While in San Jose this past weekend for Wedding #1 of the 2011 season, during a brief moment of downtime, the boyfriend and I were flipping through the TV channels in our hotel room.

(And by “the boyfriend and I,” I mean “the boyfriend.” We all know I don’t operate the remote.)

Anyway, after one particular flip I saw Don Johnson’s familiar face.

“Nash Bridges!“

The boyfriend looked at me with a mixture of concern and disbelief. “My mom watched this show,” he informed me, emphasizing mom.

“So? I loved it! Nash and his yellow Barracuda…” I trailed off as he kept looking.

“Wait a minute.” He took a deep breath. “Did you also watch Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman?“

I could feel my face light up. “Yes! It was so good! We used to watch it as a family!“

He sighed again, almost in resignation. “Okay. What about the one in a hospital with the guy from Mary Poppins?“

“Diagnosis: Murder! Yeah, I didn’t watch it on a regular basis, but sometimes.“

“But you still knew what I was talking about. These are all shows that my mom loves. How old are you?”

To be honest, he has a point. I may be 25 on the outside, but I do have an 80-year-old soul. Apparently I’ve had one for quite a while.

And that 80-year-old soul would still gladly watch Dr. Quinn and Sully over Jersey Shore any day.

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That’s what friends are for

In packing up my apartment and throwing things out, I’ve come across papers and notes and memories that I hadn’t thought about in ages. One such note came from Cla, right before we graduated from college. We didn’t yet know that we’d both end up in DC, so she decided to leave me with a few words of wisdom.

You see, I’m not a particularly fashion savvy person. I can pull an outfit together, but I’m not always up on the current trends. And I’ve been known to keep an item of clothing for far too long, just because it kind of fits, or doesn’t have too many holes.

During school, I would often consult Clara on outfit choice, color schemes, and all around flattering-ness. So when her words of wisdom turned out to be sage fashion advice, I wasn’t at all surprised, and was honestly a little grateful.

Upon re-reading the list, I realized that many of the tips are common sense, and many I already knew, but that doesn’t make them any less true.

Sorry guys...

A sampling:

1) Denim and denim is NEVER acceptable.

3) An expensive pair of shades or a handbag is an excellent accent to any outfit.

4) Note: Target is a good source for basics.

5) A pair of jeans that look fabulous on YOU will never go out of style.

10) Jewelry – often less is more, unless you’re going to an 80s themed party.

11) Fancy flip-flops are a must for summer.

15) The distance is never too far for shopping at outlet stores.

17) Wear polos sparingly and be careful of their fit; they can make one’s torso look shorter.

18) Certain t-shirts should really only be worn to the gym.

19) Just because it’s in style doesn’t mean it works for you.

20) Be wary of princess waist shirts – if they’re cheaply made the way they fall can make anyone look preggers.

Like I said, a lot of common sense, but also good advice. And a pretty good litmus test for whether or not I should actually keep some of the things currently populating my wardrobe.

Plus, the more I throw out, the more I can justify a trip to the outlets, right? Isn’t that how this works?

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Blast from the past OR yet another distraction

I made a fabulous discovery last night as I was attempting a little econ homework. I remembered that I had my old graphing calculator – a relic last used regularly in 2002-03 for Mrs. Scherer’s calculus class – and wanted to see just how accurately I was drawing these supply and demand curves.

My intentions changed, however, when I remembered something else I’d used the TI-83 Plus for: games.

More specifically, Super Mario.

Of course, once I remembered the time I’d spent playing that game, I was eager to see if my skills were still in tact. Unfortunately, figuring out how to access the program proved to be the hardest part.

I’m sure that when I first bought the calculator I tossed the directions aside without a second thought. I know for a fact that in order to even get Super Mario on the apparatus, I had to appeal to a couple tech savvy gentlemen. But I’d never had any trouble starting it up – until now.

I swear, looking at the calculator last night, it might as well have been in another language. Every button has a bare minimum of two functions, and only certain combinations will unlock the secrets of the machine.

But apparently (after more attempts than I care to admit) I can still speak the TI-83 basics.

And I can still eat mushrooms and shoot fireballs like a champ.

Because I really needed another way to waste time.

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Singing works wonders for the nerves

When I told my mom about my motorcycle ride last Thursday, she asked me one question: “Did you sing?”

See, I have this habit of singing to calm my nerves. For instance, years ago I was rock climbing in Acadia when it started to storm. I still had to rappel down the cliff I was on, so I sang on the way down to take my mind off it. I didn’t realize until afterward that I’d been singing “Free Fallin’.”

Anyway, my mother asked the question because she remembers a very specific moment during one family vacation. We’d gone on a cruise to Bermuda, and while we were on the island, my parents rented mopeds. My dad was totally comfortable, zooming around, taking the turns, and completely adjusting to driving on the other side of the road.

So of course my brother got to ride with him.

I could feel that Mama wasn’t so comfortable on the moped. And I could feel the uneasiness turn to annoyance once I started singing. But, considering I was nervous, too (I was sure that I was going to fall right off the back, particularly with every bump in the road), I wasn’t about to stop.

My thoughts exactly. Before *and* after my experience.

So when Mama asked me this time, if I’d sung on Bones’ bike, I told her, “No. I trusted him. I knew he wasn’t going to tip the bike!”

Because that’s what happened in Bermuda.

Day two on the mopeds, after Mama had already mentioned how much she did NOT appreciate my singing, we set off for the beach. Mama took a turn to try to follow Daddy, and the next thing I knew we were skidding, and then on the side of the road with the bike tipped over on top of us. We were okay, luckily, but I was [even more] nervous on the bike the rest of the trip.

Even years later, the first time I rode on the back of a friend’s scooter I had Bermuda flashbacks. So it’s perfectly natural that my mom would ask about the singing after this most recent ride.

But to be honest, if I’d had any doubts about my safety, I wouldn’t have even gotten on. A moped tips over and you scrape your leg a bit. A motorcycle tips over, and marathon training is put on hold indefinitely.

Plus, at the speed we were going, if I’d been singing I probably would have done this:

And that’s just gross.

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