beer boy

I can’t hold it any longer. I’ve never been good at secrets—but it’s certainly not a secret—yet I think the whole story is here, so I’m ready to tell.

It all started at a Super Bowl party.

"Oh, speaking of the Canadian flag; tell Natalie, Martin.”

“We have an errand for you."

“Okay…”

My dear friends then made a wonderfully joint effort to tell me about this catch of a twenty-one-year-old available boy they met at the brewery a few blocks down.

“You have to go see him during half-time. We told him to look for the girl with ear plugs,” (she was referencing my gauges, in case you were wondering).

Half-time came, and Martin accompanied me to the brewery. On the walk down, we both felt quite silly about the whole thing. What was I even supposed to say? “Hey, my friends said you’re great; let’s go on a date?” Minus the rhymes. Totally clueless, we passed the small crowd of tables and up to the bar, only to find that the boy had gone.

“To missed connections,” Martin raised his glass of Amber Ale that had some clever name that I entirely forget. I kept thinking what a bummer this was—it seems impossible to find a nice, Christian man outside of my church (not that there aren’t nice ones at my church; there just haven’t been any advances), and now this one chance was gone!

So I left him a note. I have no idea what I was thinking; do people even call people anymore? The last boy I connected with, we exchanged email addresses. So I left a note with both my phone number and email address and waited.

“How long is the appropriate waiting period before a random stranger responds to a note left by another random stranger? Do they respond? I would. I'm curious,” I asked Martin two days later over Facebook. His response? “5 days from the time the random stranger views said note, give or take 39 hours.” This provided a very accurate yet inaccurate calculation, as the next day, he called. CALLED.

I was in the hardware store when an unknown number called. “Hi, it’s ____ from the brewery. I think you left me a note on Super Bowl Sunday?” It took a minute to register that it was actually him on the other line. His voice sounded either extremely sweet and gentle or gay, which was slightly confusing. He asked a few questions about myself over the course of several dropped calls as I had to leave the store for service and said to text him about making plans.

I immediately called the list of people I had told about him, which was basically Martin and my mom. My mom’s advice? “Just take it slow.” My response? “Mom, we haven’t even met”.

Later that night, we were arranging to meet when my lack of transportation + the chaos of that day’s parade downtown prevented me from leaving the apartment. We became “friends” on Facebook—something I was extremely hesitant of before meeting because it allows him a warped insight into my life. You really cannot get to know someone on Facebook, but for whatever reason, many millenials think you can. Further, any correspondence from then out would be biased against what he saw on Facebook. What if he saw my picture and thought I was ugly or fat or not “whatever” enough for him? That’s a shit way to “meet” someone. Regardless, he had already given me his contact info, so of course I had browsed his profile; it would have been creepy for me not to add him.

Maybe this isn’t needless to say, but I haven’t heard from him since. A week later, I sent him a text asking if he still wanted to meet sometime. No response. Seriously? At least be polite enough to say no, damnit.

On Valentine’s Day, he made a Facebook post along the lines of, “Its better to be single with high standards, then in a relationship settling for less!” followed by hashtags about his dream woman. After a brief texting exchange with both Kim & Martin from their separate phones (they are definitely the cutest couple I know), we all agreed that my standards start with someone who can at least write an accurate sentence, concluding that, IT’S better to be single THAN to settle for someone with shitty grammar. #Ihavestandardstoo (Thanks for the encouragement, friends).

Here I am on this lamest of lovey-dovey holidays, date-less and cuddling with my dog. I called my mom to thank her for the valentine & cookies (yes, I got a valentine from my parents! No shame! There are lemon cookies involved!) and told her that I was out for a walk with my valentine. While she assumed without saying that I was referring to my dog, I had to awkwardly avoid referring to my valentine as “she”.

All that to say, we are no longer Facebook friends, this “beer boy” (as Martin so cleverly referred to him) and me, though the slightly hopeful part of me can’t bring myself to delete his number even though he’s clearly never calling back. It’s because I don’t ski. Seriously.

Anyways, after more encouragement, I wrote a song about beer boy. I figured it was only appropriate that it take place as a pseudo-voicemail. You can listen to it here. 

hockey.sticks.

I’ve been delving into the 665 new songs on my iPod by putting the “Recently Added” playlist on shuffle.

A song called “Hockey Skates” came on. I started imagining that I could learn it and play it at the next rooftop shindig. The line, “I am tired of playing defense, & I don’t even have hockey skates…” caught my ear. I thought that if I were a real musician with stage presence who could talk and play and offer funny ramblings as interludes, I would say something like, “That’s a lie because I do have skates, but they’re just roller blades that I got for $5 at a flea market in California…”

Then I started thinking I left my hockey stick in Pennsylvania. Where is it? In the basement? In the barn? I’ve never actually played hockey. My dad made the hockey stick for me out of the sheets of tight-layered wood that he picked up from the dumpster at an old job. He’d bring home truckloads of it, and we used it to make anything and everything, including a hockey stick and the floor my tortoise’s mansion.

With two daughters, a hockey stick seems like an unlikely thing for a father to make. But we had bunnies that we kept in little habitats at the bottom of the hill. Their homemade plywood & chicken wire cages sat between the barn and the old school bus that we used as a storage shed. The barn had a cement patio in front of it about 7x10 square feet that would freeze over in winter’s ice.

My sister and I would trek down the hill with a bucket of hot water that we would pour over the bunny’s water bowls that had frozen solid. We’d then find the best sticks from the edge of the woods. We’d take the frozen water blocks and use them as pucks and hit the ice block across our tiny cement arena. It wasn’t hard to get a goal, but in a one-on-one, the small play space suited our ‘teams’ well.

We’d play until our noses ran so fast we couldn’t keep up or until the ice blocks were so bulked in snow that they wouldn’t move or until the ice blocks were nothing but a few chips or until the dark swallowed our surroundings and left us there under the barn light. I had to anticipate when Katlin would start running—she would always beat me up the hill, sometimes holding the door shut behind her when she made it inside, so that I was in the cold dark alone, just long enough for me to cry or start hollering up at the living room window for our parents so she would let me in.

We’d hang our snow clothes or wet clothes and boots in front of the wood burner, and heat two of the race began: up the stairs out of the basement. Only she couldn’t hold that door shut, with our parents right there, so she would just slam it behind her.

We were a funny pair: her the good older sister, doing anything to get away from me, the whiny little.

So all of this, just from the line of a song.

We’ve since grown much, and for the most part, reconciled. I bought the skates while visiting her. We were out for our first rare chance at sister time since she married last November.

Now that the cold is making its way into Seattle and Katlin is back in Pennsylvania, well, winter is just different. The dark is different. Seattle hardly even sees snow, if at all. The bus is now gone from our yard, and both tom-boyish daughters are gone from the house. The bunnies are gone too—we let them go into the wild after eight years of up and down the hill to feed them.

My mom is home for the next few weeks, staying off her feet after surgery. My aunt lives just up the road (as does most of my mother’s family), but she has been going over every morning and helping Mom around the house and caring for her.

Growing up, I thought my sister and I would fight forever, that we’d always be rivals. In college, I thought we’d always be best friends. Now, I don’t know what we are: we’re both just getting by and loving and hating each other from afar and trying to figure out where we land on this big spinning sphere. For now, I’m West, and she’s East, but I like to think that someday, we’ll be able to see each other’s homes through the naked trees in winter, and we’ll take care of each other and drink tea and play cards and laugh about being kids who played hockey with ice blocks and sticks. 

12 month lease 18 months later

Tonight, I will sign the lease for our new apartment.

It feels weird to say "our" because I always envisioned this as my great Seattle adventure. Now it is shared, and that's okay (much less lonely anyway), but I'm not quite sure where the lines are. We wake up and go to work together and come home together and until this weekend (hopefully), we have been sleeping in the same bed. I thought I wouldn't like it. I thought I would get frustrated and miss my own space. Instead I find that I do not want to be alone.



I wrote the date at the top of the page, "FEBRUARY 27". Twenty-seven. Today is the twenty-seventh of the month. Today is another full, numerical month farther. It didn't take long to count. Eighteen months since August 27th 2011. Eighteen months. The amount of time it would take for a baby to be conceived, born, and be nine months old. The amount of time--outside of mother's who won't admit their babies are over a year old and say, "18 months"--known as a year-and-a-half. The amount of time that separates my sister and me in age. The amount of time it has taken for me to get to here from August 27th 2011.

I am 2,587 miles away from the place I grew up. I am 2,587 miles away from the place that he died. I am 2,587 miles away from the person I thought I was 18 months ago. I am 2,587 miles away from Derek.



Sharing a bed is hard, even when it is a full-size. I rolled over the other night, letting my foot slide to the right. It touched Laura's, and she instantly pulled hers away. I moved closer to the edge of the bed, careful to keep my distance.



"Nat," he looked at me with a small, closed-mouth smile, "Come lay with me."

I walked up to the bed. First, I had to move him over. I walked around to the other side and pulled the sleeping pad towards me in a swift tug. His head stayed where it was, and he uncomfortably dealt with the disposition until I could pull the pillow towards me too. He was much to far on his side, so I pulled one of the extra pillows from behind his back. I sat it next to his head pillow so that I would have one too. It was still warm from him laying on it. I went back to his right side and nudged my wide hips between the bed sides and his hips, sometimes nudging him a little farther.

"Nat! Nat! My leg!" He gave a slight panic as his leg started slipping. I pulled it back onto the bed more and continued to settle into the bed.

"Hold my hand." The first few times, I was a bit wary. It just seemed weird, no matter how close we were. I hadn't held anyone's hand in quite a while, unless you counted holding Derek's arms and fingers in the stretches for his physical therapy that we did every day that we didn't forget to.

I reached over and grabbed his right hand with my right. His fingers were cold and stiff, and in the same position they had been in for the past few years with slight exception. His fingers moved as if he were always wearing mittens--together and not very far.

He wiggled his thumb up and down half an inch. "One-two-three-four..."

"... I declare a thumb war..." Sometimes I lost on purpose. Sometimes he really did catch my thumb and pinch it down so hard that there was no escape. Strength has nothing to do with muscles.

It became a thing--when I visited, we would lay in bed and watch movies or talk or I would read to him. It was an easy adjustment. Sometimes, when Dawnna was late coming home (the year before the year of hospital rooms and breathing machines), I would lay with him after I put him to bed--keep him company until there was someone else home to be with him. Someone other than Mr.Moose, of course (with his soft fur and red, Canadian maple-leaf sweater), who, I admit, did quite a good job of comforting him during the night.

"Nat," he looked at me with that same, closed-mouth smile and eyes that always seemed tired, but I never understood just how tired, "Come lay with me."

Sometimes I was unsure  because some nurses didn't like that. Sometimes I felt ashamed, embarrassed, to be seen lying in bed with my cousin.

"You are a cute couple," one of the night nurses said, as Derek and I lay watching a movie. I looked at him and then at her. It was one of those silent nights when he had the vent and couldn't talk, so he just opened his mouth and laughed in quiet, the way Katlin and I do when we are together and laughing so hard that no sound comes out, and we sit clapping our hands like walruses.

"We aren't together," I managed between giggles.

"Oh, are you siblings? You do look quite alike. Twins?"

"May as well be," I said, smiling.



At all of the funerals that I went to growing up, I always remember my mother touching the deceased in a gentle caress--a squeeze of the hand, a light brush against the stiff cheek. Aside from my grandmother's funeral, at which I was four years old, yet I still remember nudging her and telling her to wake up, I had never touched a dead body. It frightened me, and I couldn't understand how my mother could bear to let her skin touch someone whom we loved but was no longer in that shell. How could she bear to stand so close to death?

But I held Derek's hand. From the time we arrived, I went to him. I held his hand. I held his colder, stiffer fingers until the make-up rubbed off the top, revealing a deep purple splotch. I held his hand and watched his face, waited for his eyes to twitch as if he were just dreaming, waited for him to open his face in a smile and say, "Just kidding! You really thought I was dead, didn't you?"

It was a game we played all our lives. Whenever someone walked into the room, we'd look at each other and say, "Play dead!"

Some nights, I would roll Derek over during his bed bath, and when he was facing me again, he would have his eyes closed and his tongue sticking out.

"I'n dead," he would say, tongue still sticking out.

"Uh huh."

"What if I really was dead? What would you do?"

"Go home and go to bed." It was usually around 1am by this time.

"No you wouldn't. What would you do?"

"I don't know, Derek." It wasn't something I ever wanted to think about. It wasn't something I ever thought would actually happen.

But it did. And I held his hand. And I wanted him to wake up. And I wanted him to ask me to lie next to him. And I wanted to follow him all the way to the cold rectangle of missing ground. But I didn't. I only held his hand, and when it was time to close the casket, I let go.



It was different. Different from letting go of his hand to leave for the night, to come back and visit him at the hospital the next day. Different still from letting go just to move to my chair that I slept in on slumber party nights at the hospital. And different from leaving the emergency room where his life had just left him and where the warm feeling in his blushed cheeks would begin to vacate before I even left the room.



2,785 miles sounds like a long way. Long enough to drive from Seattle to Phoenix and back again. Long enough to forget the miles in-between such that the twenty-seventh of any given month feels like the twenty-seventh of that one particular month in 2011. I hated when the year turned 2012 because it was a year that Derek would never see. I don't even know how to digest 2013.

Tonight, I will sign the lease for our new apartment.

I keep pushing it off because I can't believe that this is where I am. That I have a job that I love, that I am on good terms with my whole family, that I live in Seattle of all places (may I remind you I have never been before?!), that I am still pushing forward even though the heavy beating within says "hold back. don't go". 

My great, selfish Seattle adventure is turning into a smash-your-pride-to-pulp-and-see-what-comes-out-at-the-unforeseeable-end-of-the-journey adventure.

Sometimes it really sucks. Like these periods of not writing poems or the nights of going straight to bed after work or the days of cold, dark dampness where my basement apartment offers no warmth or comfort or the hours of confused desolation and wondering if my life in Pennsylvania ever existed,  if there really was a young man with red hair and an underbite and stiff fingers and bright green eyes who called me Nat and Monk and Kalawagachattanooga or clickclickclick or whatever pretend language we spoke for the day. (we once painted styrofoam cups blue and glued them to paper bags and pretended they were an alien life form called the "cupperstyroblues")

Sometimes it's really great. Like the prospect of moving to a new apartment, closer to my friends and to downtown to a place that is pet-friendly, leaving open the opportunity to get a dog and to finally be reunited with my Russian tortoise, Elijah, or the joy of having people that I love just a ferry ride away in a slightly more rural town where we can go hiking in woods that feel like home or the fun of wearing bright rainboots and splashing in puddles singing my invented "Rainboots" song or picking cold, wet blackberries in the bushes along Puget Sound or simply living so close to the pulsing shores of a body of salt water or in the valley between two walls of mountains I had hardly even heard of six, maybe seven, months ago.



I wish I could tell him about it. Every detail. At first, I thought I could. I would desperately write on his Facebook wall, as if he could see it. As if he would respond. But these little blurbs of memories on a blank screen with a flashing text line will have to do because surely I cannot always hold it all in my head.


I'm signing on to a twelve-month lease. Eighteen months ago, I couldn't imagine where I would be in twelve months. And I've jumped around a lot. I'm about to sign on for twelve months. A whole-nother year just like the last. Except entirely different.

delicates.

A week ago, I sat in the laundromat, trying to focus on Annie Dillard, but was distracted: by the hum of the machines, by the ranting of the owner in a language that I do not know, and by the dull, happy buzzing in my mind resulting from talking to a good friend for the first time in a while.

As I watched my clothes spin, the machine shook violently, and I thought of how careful I had been in getting my clothes into the washer. I made sure that my laundry bag didn't touch the ground on the way to the shop, even though the bag was heavy and the clothes already dirty. I made sure that each shirt and sock was right-side-out and gently tossed, fairly flat, into the front-loading bowl. Here they were now: being tossed and shaken and vibrated into some sort of cleanliness.

I couldn't help but wonder why I had taken so much time to make sure that everything seemed perfect. I wanted every detail to be right; it made me feel together: whole. With my clothes washed right-side-out, I won't have to worry about them stretching were I to wait to turn them later. Why does it matter? Why treat things so gently? The funny part, to me, was that even though we can take care of our "stuff" as good as possible, when we send it to the outside world, it's thrown about like a snowball--picking up dirt and other things that stick before being tossed to blend with the whole: smashed into an unrecognizable collage of what used to be individual.

I thought about other items that we do this with: luggage, mail. These items that we pack so carefully, ensuring every detail is correct, double-checking that we didn't forget anything.

Mail--Stamp? check. Contents? check. Return address? check.
Luggage--Shampoo? check. Toothbrush? check. Clean underwear? check.

It goes on in this pattern, even though these things are just going to find their way into a pile somewhere after being thrown around and smashed about. I began to wonder if the delicate care even mattered; what if I just threw my clothes into a ball and tossed them in the washer. Wouldn't they still come out clean?

I took a step back and thought about it again. Sure, the clothes would be clean, but not as good as when  well cared-for. Then I realized that, maybe it wasn't the things that I was focusing on--I mean, sure, my disgust in how particular I am about worldly items spurred these thoughts, but I soon recognized myself in the washer rotations.

Here I am: out in the world on my own. Sure, it's been rough with graduate school not quite working out how I thought and having difficulty finding a job, but I'm still in one piece. Why? Because I was well-prepared. Because my parents took the time and the energy to make sure that I was right-side-out--a good education, a diploma under my belt, and a solid family upbringing--before tossing me into the machinations of a new city and a great, big world.

And just as the washer sent my clothes out beaten but clean, I hope that the world makes kind enough to do the same for all of us--children nurtured and sent into the dirty hands of the world, but with enough strength and capability to come out better than before, just as the mail and the luggage comes through the other side and into the right hands.

As a final note, I think it will; sometimes, the washer needs to run just a little longer; sometimes, there are some delays in the post; sometimes, the luggage gets a little lost on the conveyor belt, but eventually, it arrives. I've learned that well the past few weeks, and luckily, this wash cycle is up for a while: I got a job!

My secret existence

I've come to the conclusion that I'm just not a person who should live with other people. I'm a terrible housemate. I wasn't happy at my other apartment because it was too dirty. Now, dare I say it, I'm not happy here because it's too clean! Yes, you heard me, it's too clean!!!

So maybe it's not exactly the cleanliness that's the problem. The problem is that we, the renters, are expected to act as if we do not live here at all. If we show any signs of our presence, we are left notes on torn strips of paper taped to whatever wrongdoing we've committed.

At first, I got a lot of notes as I tried to understand which items were compostable versus recyclable and which items count as "personal garbage" to be thrown away in my bedroom versus "not personal garbage" which is safe to throw away in the kitchen. For example, when I first moved in, I realized that I didn't have a fitted sheet for my mattress, which is larger than my last apartment, so I bought a fitted sheet and threw the plastic wrapper in the kitchen garbage. It was promptly removed with a note that said "personal garbage". Or another example: I had a box from something (also when I first moved in, can't quite remember what), so I flattened it and put in the recycling can in the kitchen, which also received a "personal recycling" note. I then determined that everything that is not food related must be personal garbage or recycling, so I've been doing pretty well on not getting any food notes.

Well, the other day was a very noteful day, apparently. I was feeling lazy one day as I finished up the peanut butter in the broken container that Laura had left behind, so guiltily, I threw it in the garbage instead of the recycling. I was so conscious of my wrong decision that I intentionally put it in the bottom of the can so that I wouldn't get a note. But hear out my logic, okay? We aren't allowed to use dish cloths or sponges or hand towels and have to use paper towels to wash and dry dishes and our hands, and I just didn't feel like scrubbing peanut butter out of a broken container with a paper towel. Please do not judge me; I swear I try really hard to live sustainably, but it's easier said than done sometimes. (How cliché!)

Apparently, a peanut butter coated container cannot hide at the bottom of the can. I received a note, "Please wash and put in recycling." Dammit. Laziness never wins when your trash is constantly inspected. So I brought the container to my room until I got up the motivation to grease up some paper towels, which further ebbs on the whole sustainability thing: I waste so many paper towels on dishes and keeping the kitchen clean. Anyways, that's not my point here.

Fine. My every action is monitored; my trash is searched; fine.

Laura visited me for a week, and as I walked through the living room one day, I noticed a note on the chair that Laura had sat in as we watched The Big Bang Theory the night before: "Please smooth out the blanket when you are done sitting."

I swiped up the paper and went to Laura, "You got a note!" I laughed. Laura smoothed out the blanket covering the living room furniture, and the room once again looked as if no one had ever entered it. Ever.

It's such a strange way to live. I sneak around in my own living space! When I come home, I shut the gate as quietly as possible and tiptoe up the deck stairs so that the Yorkie puppy will not come yapping loudly at the sliding glass door. I love puppies; I do. Just not yappy ones, and she's always behind the glass anyways because I go in through a different door, so I experience none of the cuteness of the little dog, except for gawking at how small she is. And just because she is behind the glass does not make her yapping any less piercing.

So I sneak around. I tiptoe. I look both ways before exiting my bedroom. I shut off all lights and signs of existence and wipe every counter twice and wash my dishes before I even eat my food and put my kettle back in the cupboard when it's still hot. I sneak up the stairs to grab my mail. I carry my shoes to the door. I take my shoes off when I'm still outside, even if it means getting my socks wet. I've become obsessive about cleaning up after myself in fear of "the note".

And then there was this morning. The rest of my housemates aren't bums, so they get up and go to school or work or whatever it is they do while I mosey around. I had an interview this afternoon, so I decided it would be a shower day and that I would take some time to get ready and look nice. The bathroom is divided into two sections. One part has the sink, the garbage can, and the counter. The other part has the toilet and the shower. I got out of the shower, wrapped in my towel, and opened the door to the other half of the bathroom to walk to my room.

My landlord was standing right outside the door. Right outside the door. Used to never seeing any sign of her existence save for the notes, her presence was the last thing I expected as I exited the shower. I jumped back, "Oh my gosh!" dropping the nightgown that I was holding, but thankfully, holding onto my towel.

"Just emptying the trash. Sorry to frighten you," she laughed.

Shaking, I walked to my room. I looked at myself in the mirror and took a deep breath. Patience. Patience.

And God knows I'm trying to be patient. It's not easy trying to pretend like you aren't alive. It's even more frightening because I don't have cell phone service in my room, so contact to the outside world is limited. AH! I might just be going stir crazy. I mean, who complains that something is too clean?! And at least all of the notes are polite; they say "Please".

So here I am: in my room, leaned over at my computer typing away into cyberspace. It's evening now, so there is no light coming into the apartment. Being in the basement, there usually isn't much light anyways, but it's now especially dark and cold.

I remember being afraid of the basement when I was a kid. Heck, I'm still afraid of the basement at my parent's house in Pennsylvania, especially at night. I'm trying not to be afraid of the basement here because, well, it's my home: it's where I pretend not to live, which is a funny thought because during summer days off from the school year, Derek, Katlin, and I used to play "house" in the basement sometimes, pretending to live like adults. Regardless, I never thought I'd say it, but I miss my big blue house in the woods with skylights and a woodburner. I miss the smell of the woodburner, even the smoke that would sometimes back up through the vents.

I cooked a vegetable patty the other day. I had the oven fan on high, as required. When I was done, I turned the fan off, washed my dishes, and retreated to my room to eat. When I took my empty plate back to the kitchen, there was a note on the fan, "Please leave the fan on for ten minutes after cooking too!" I miss the smell of fresh cooked food in the kitchen.

I miss being able to walk around in anything and nothing. I miss sitting my dishes on the counter or in the sink to be attended to later. I miss throwing my coat on a chair when I walk in the door. I miss hanging my towel in the bathroom. I miss hand towels and dish cloths. I miss being in a home that feels lived in. And I miss having friendly faces to greet in the morning or at the end of the day. That's right. I may never admit it again, but I am homesick. And Mom, I hope that you miss my coat in the kitchen and my junk on the steps and my shoes at the door and my dishes in the sink because I sure took it for granted.

But shhh, it's a secret.

Permanent

I need a change.

I looked in the mirror and contemplated my reflection from every angle. 

After having just settled in to a city across the country, only to drop out of the school that I moved there for, then taking several short trips to other cities, then coming back, you'd think that I've had enough change, at least for a few months. Apparently not. 

I watched the long strands of hair give in to waves along my ears. 

"I want to perm my hair," I said to Laura as I walked into my room.

"Then do it."

"Really?"

"Why not?"

"I don't know."

So I did.

Here's a photo venture:

BeforeDuring  After

I had to post the "during" photo because 1) it's funny and 2) looking at my hair all up in curlers reminds me of my grandma. My grandma always used to put my hair in pink and purple foam curlers. I would sit down on the blue shag toilet seat cover (or was it pink?) in her bathroom as she did my hair and put bright red lipstick on my tiny lips. "Curlers in your hair; shame on you!" she would chime. 

And after she died, the curlers sat under the sink in my mom's bathroom, and from time to time, we would get them out, and my mom would say the same thing, "Curlers in your hair..." I remember sleeping in them a few times. I must have been in kindergarten, judging from my school pictures. And I got my hair cut short to boyish length in the third grade and have generally kept it quite short ever since, which also means that it's been since elementary school when I last had my hair in a perm. Oh the funny things that we do to ourselves.

But I like the change. It's nice to have things like curling our hair: change that we can control--how big of curls do you want? wave or spiral? 

Here's my usual 'do now. I feel spunky!