Nostalgia

I find myself living the joke of my own telling on a daily basis as I stifle boredom and procrastinate throughout the day on Facebook. See the joke here in a commercial my husband and I recently wrote and produced. They say write what you know, right. Even though at the time it felt like the idea struck me out of some brilliant subconscious, I've since discovered that it came from my own actions. I will see a friend tagged in a photo and suddenly I am clicking through a collage of photos that were posted by someone I don't know. Until I realize it's someone I do know, or did know, many, many years ago, because there's a photo with me in it. Today I suddenly found myself looking at a photo of my third grade class. A girl I had gone to elementary school with had tagged another friend in a different photo, but of course I didn't stop there. Not recognizing her name didn't matter, I kept scanning her photos until I suprisingly landed on one with me in it.


I don't feel bad for not recognizing her name, because she obviously didn't remember me either. A lot of the students were tagged with either full names or Luke Something, Julie Something half names. But I recognized the teacher, and the boy sitting on the front row in the classic mesh jersey is the boy I had one of my first crushes on. That would be Luke Something. So, I scanned the photo to find myself. Where am I? Well, you tell me. I'll give you two hints. I'm not wearing white. And I'm standing where they always put the tall people.

What's sadder than the fact that I've spent/wasted so much of my time on this observation is thinking about how much time it took to scan this photo and type in the names of all the people. Then I realize that people seem to be doing this a lot lately. I've seen countless photos with rolled up edges making their way to Facebook postings, embarrassing people with feathered hair and bad, 80s wardrobe decisions. (Did we really used to roll our jeans up at the bottom like that?) I can see the girl who posted this sitting at her desk, squinting her eyes at the little bodies in the photo, searching way back into her memory to try to place them, and then typing in each of their names or half names. I mean, how long did that take?

This is becoming Generation Nostalgia. Generation Retro. Generation Throw Back. Generation Are-You-Going-To-The-20-Year Reunion? Why is nostalgia so fascinating? We seem to be gripped with it. Look at what happened the second after we heard Michael Jackson died. I'm guilty of it myself. You bet your ass I downloaded every song he's ever written and burned them to CDs that I could listen to in the car.

Then there's the new Facebook status challenge. It says this "Stefani Zellmer is playing along: Social experiment: if you read this, even if we don't speak often, post a comment with a memory of you and me. It can be anything you want (but please use ~some~ discretion!). When you're finished, post this paragraph on your own status and you will be surprised by what people remember about you."

And of course everyone so far has said that the caveat to use discretion negates their first thought (thanks people). But people are writing things they remember about people and they're fun to read, even when you don't know the person. Just like it's kinda fun to look at pictures of people you don't even know.

Okay, so maybe it's not sad after all. I really did enjoy looking at all those faces from third grade, and was even more amazed that my memory isn't as bad as I thought. I remember a lot of those people, and even stories about them. (Mom, remember when you volunteered in my class and Luke Something busted his head open clowning around in the listening center?) WHY DO I REMEMBER THAT???

Maybe we're all just bored. Or maybe we're all just getting older and this is our way of clinging to our youth. What do you think? And more importantly, did you guess which one is me in that photo?

Nightmares

We live in a Ranch-style house that was built in 1973. It's shaped like a boomerang, with our master bedroom at one end and the kid's room at the opposite end. That makes the baby monitor the most important appliance in our house, besides the air conditioner, which lately works about as well as the plastic piece of crap we bought at Babies R Us for $19.99. But that's another story.

It's a modest house of just under 2,000 square feet. But it probably takes me about 25 strides to walk from my bed to hers, which is at the far end of their room. I can only imagine it takes her three times as many steps to make it from hers to ours. Until now, she's fallen asleep in her bed and woken up in the morning with nothing happening in between. If there's a disturbance in the night, we usually have her baby brother to blame. And blame him we do.

But lately, she's having nightmares. The cute thing is, she's more afraid of waking her brother by calling out to me than of getting up in her frightened state and traversing a darkened house in seventy-five frantic steps to stand at the edge of our bed barking out undecipherable sobs.

We're so unfamiliar with this getting-out-of-bed-on-her-own thing that we tend to react with as much terror as she's already feeling, making us little consolation for the first few blinks. Last night when it happened, my husband actually drew in a huge breath and then released the most horrified gasp I've ever heard him utter. It was as if he'd seen a ghost.

It is disconcerting to be shaken from a deep sleep by a high-pitched, choked off cry that is looming over you in the dark. And even more so that she's able to get out of her bed and walk that far across the house to find some comfort in ours. All because she doesn't want to wake her brother.

If it were me, I'd scream Mommy as loud as I could until someone came to rescue me. But I'm lazy like that.

The nightmares are also giving us a little glimpse into the workings of her quickly developing mind. Last night she was running from a hawk. Apparently there was a hawk outside, like one she saw at Gammy's house, and it was trying to get in, and even better, it had a horn.

"Like a unicorn," Chris asks her.

"It was a unicorn bird," she says, wide-eyed.

She lay under the covers between us shivering for the longest time. She had the hardest time shaking that dream. And we all had an equally hard time sleeping from that point on as none of us are used to sleeping three to a bed.

In the morning we had a discussion about good dreams and bad, where I explained that there are good dreams and bad dreams.

"Just like there are good birds and bad birds?" she said.

"That's right," I said. "Some dreams have horns and some don't."

This time last year

This time last year I was about to go to the BlogHer conference in San Francisco, where I would roommate with this one, and where I would meet this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one, this one and this one, while standing very close to a towering this one, after listening to a very brave and beautiful this one. And I know I'm forgetting a few. Oh yes, this one. And this one.

I remember feeling excited before leaving because I needed a parenting break, a flight all to myself in which I could read magazines, and a few nights when I could wake up on my own instead of when the crying began blaring from the monitor.

I wrote about it all here, here, here and here. The last one being one of my favorite posts for some reason. I think the conference did inspire me to write better, although for a short spell.

So as things come up that remind me that it was this time last year that I had this experience that made people go, "She's going to a blogging convention? Really?" Like, the invitation to a birthday party that I missed last year because I was at BlogHer. It makes me wonder why I'm not going this year.

Because I'm not. Going this year.

I'm not going because I don't have the same goals for my blog that I had previously. Before I went to BlogHer, I wanted to grow my blog. I wanted a wider readership. I wanted more comments. I wanted to know how all this could actually send checks into my mailbox.

But this year, as you may have noticed, I'm not posting as much as I used to. I get the emails form BlogHer that nudge me to post, gentle reminders that I haven't posted in a while and they miss me. Do they really?

I've even blogged about why already here. But that was last year's excuses. This year's include my new business, which involved overseeing the development of this website. Websites are not easy things to develop, especially when you have no previous knowledge of developing a website with fancy flash work driven by elaborate designs. (Thank you Justin. Thank you Brad.) It also involved shooting a five-spot campaign for our first client, which you can see on our website under Current Work while freelancing full-time at a local ad agency at the same time. Oh, and did I mention we were also remodeling our bathroom at the same time, with none other than me at the helm. So yeah, plenty of excuses.

Then there's the fact that my children are honestly not much to complain about anymore. Z is super cute and the Lil' Man sleeps well and blogging about how cute they are just gets old doesn't it?

I started to write a post about Food Inc., then I remembered the part where they sued Oprah and I thought I better not go on and on about the evils of the food industry or why I'm no longer eating meat.

In other words, I do feel like I'm running out of things to blog about. My passion for blogging has been absorbed by a passion for my little ad agency that could and my growing children and my fabulous bathroom.

And then there's Facebook, which never ceases to be an excuse. I swear I get stuck on it. Paralyzed with needing to know and needing to tell in 146 characters or less.

I do feel a bit of sadness for the loss of the thrill I felt before last year's BlogHer. I would love to feel that way again about meeting new people and learning new things. And I do love Chicago in the Summer. And it would be great to see Vanessa.

But my life has just changed. It's funny how much happens in a year that seems to fly by so quickly. I will miss seeing those ladies. I don't think many of them are going, for their own reasons. But I am thinking of them and remembering their lovely faces, and though I admit I'm also not reading their blogs as much as I used to, I do check in from time to time to make sure they're still there, and still writing.

Life can stop a lot of things, but let's hope it never stops the writing.

Three Years

I fell in love with Chris at The Crown & Anchor pub on a warm evening in Austin, Texas. We sat with a group of college friends at a crooked, wooden table on the front patio, smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap--even for 1993--pitchers of beer. The gathering had begun just after our advertising portfolio class, which let out in the early afternoon, but had seeped into the night hours, as it often did. We didn't know each other that well yet. But at some point I said something, and he laughed. Like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. And for some reason, the enthusiasm and genuine quality of the laugh caused me to turn my head and really focus, as much as I could with a bunch of beer in my brain, on him. Then, I saw his eyes. And they had a bunch of little stars inside them, shooting right at me. So I melted a little.

We haven't been together for sixteen years. Many, many things have happened along the way that have torn us apart more than a few times. We dated for a while. We graduated. We moved to different cities. There were no cell phones then. Blah Blah Blah. For most of those years we totally lost track of each other. Sometimes he crossed my mind and I wondered. But I never really knew what happened to him until a chance encounter. A mutual friend. And some serendipity brought us back together. We have been lovers, friends, enemies, friends again, lovers, friends, lovers. It has often been complicated.

So it is that after all that we've been through, and all the opportunities we've had to fail, that I still look at our life sometimes and my head starts spinning with disbelief that we managed to get here. Married for three years. Two children. A house. Living together back in Austin. Trying to start our own company. Parents! Doing responsible things.

It boggles me. I still do a double take sometimes. I'll be driving in my car and I'll turn back to look at my children, and I'll think to myself, "What? I have two children? Me? With him?"

Even more amazing is that sometimes, not as often, but it can still happen, he'll look at me like he used to. Like that college kid with the stars in his eyes. And he'll make me feel like the college girl wearing her baseball cap backwards, saying funny things, my whole life ahead of me. And I'll remember why I love him, and how long I've loved him, and I'll hope for the maximum number of years in which to continue loving him, and like I did at The Crown & Anchor all those years ago, the hard stuff just melts away.

Why

Z has entered The Why Phase. She stands at the edge of the bathroom vanity watching me wash my face.

"Why are you putting soap on your face, Mommy?"

"Because I'm washing my face."

"Why are you washing your face, Mommy?"

"Becuase it's dirty."

"Why is it dirty?"

???

These questions are always linear, somewhat expected but always end in me being stumped for an answer. Why is my face dirty? Hmmm. I don't really know that it is, but how do I explain and do I really need to? I totally understand how "because I said so" entered the Mommy vernacular. It's the shortest way to end the relentless litany of whys.

"Why did you steal Daddy's little car from him, Mommy?"

"I didn't steal it, I'm just driving it because mine's in the shop."

"Why is your car in the shop, Mommy?"

"Because it has a power-steering leak and needs a new hose."

LONG PAUSE WHILE 3-YEAR-OLD BRAIN PROCESSES THIS INFORMATION

"You mean it has a hole in it, Mommy?"

"Yeah, sweetie, I guess that's what I mean."

"Did you take it to the shop in the little car, Mommy?"

"No, sweetie, I drove it there myself."

LONG PAUSE AGAIN WHILE SHE PONDERS THIS

"Because the big car is too big to fit in Daddy's little car?"

"That's right sweetie."

"Got it!"

The Glove

Now I know how people felt when John Lennon was shot.

Even though Michael wasn't shot. Time will tell, but it seems he kinda killed himself in a way. Or was it society? Or was he just the victim of his own life: no childhood, relentless spotlight, blah blah blah?

Still. I'm sad.

And I'm as nostalgic as everybody else who grew up on his music.

What are my favorite Michael Jackson songs? I can't even name them all. There is no top five. There may not even be a top 20.

I just remember so many moments that have happened in my life in and around those songs.

I remember the posters I hung of him on the walls of my bedroom, with multiple-colored thumb tacks. I think one even hung above my bed, on the ceiling. I loved him that much.

I remember babysitting when I was 12 and playing the Mom and Dad's Thriller album over and over because I hadn't yet bought one of my own.

I remember learning the dance to Thriller in my jazz class and regretted moving too early to perform it at the recital. (Although I would perform it for anyone that would sit still long enough to watch).

I remember crying as "I just can't stop loving you" came on the radio, because my own first love affair was coming to an end.

I remember watching that Motown special live with my parents on TV and then teaching myself how to moonwalk the next day.

I remember dancing to the Beat It video, my favorite part being that backward shoulder roll move.

I remember the first time I went to New York City, in 1991, and dancing to "Remember The Time" at a gay club when it was still just a remix single. And I remember marveling at how much the gays had no shame in their love for Michael Jackson, at a time when his popularity had begun to dwindle. I mean, the dance floor was packed. And there wasn't a person in there without his arms in the air.

I'm really sad that Michael Jackson died. I feel bad for his family. But I have to admit, I'm loving the revival of his music that's happening in honor of his life. I hadn't heard "Ben" in years. A song I also have to admit that I always loved. Or, watched that Pepsi commercial. Were the 80s really that strange? The zippered jackets. The parachute pants. The kinky hair. The glove.

RIP PYT. We'll miss you and all your weirdness. But thanks for leaving us with all those songs.

Vay Cay

The family just got back from an 11-day road trip extravaganza. Last Saturday, around 10am, we buckled Z and the Lil' Man into their plush, Britax Marathon car seats and headed west on 290. Destination number one: Albuquerque. Although, if you know anything about how big Texas is then you know when we stopped driving nearly 7 hours later, we were still in Texas. In a little town called Pecos. In an oversold and thus over-priced Holiday Inn & Suites. I had high hopes though I don't know why. The word "suite" to me connotes something in the area of fancy. At least dipping its toe into the waters of fance. But no. The Holiday Inn & Suites not only has a very bland, oh I'll go ahead and say it, a butt ugly logo design, but it is also full of itself, as well as false promises. I said, "so, the room has two separate rooms?" I get a straight-faced "yes." Their idea of two rooms however is a sofa next to two beds that is separated only by a little six-inch column jutting out from the wall. The fresh baked cookies in the lobby were nice though. And the kids had a blast jumping from bed to bed, like all kids should be allowed to do only while in overpriced, oversold, scratchy-sheeted hotel rooms. Chris, who is also graced in the fine art of setting his expectations to low, said in all seriousness, "This may be our best night." But after a set-your-mouth-on-fire-meal of local Mexican food, where we were unnerved throughout by a large, prominently displayed painting of Jesus that looked too much like one of the Allman brothers, we all slept well enough to tackle a second day of 7 hours on the road.

We arrived in Albuquerque and were greeted by Chris's folks, his step-sister and nephew and their five animals: four cats and one dog. Since we've been back, Z has mentioned how much she misses Nene and Bubby a few times, but has used those cats in multiple stories told to everyone she's come in contact with since our return, as well as entertained us with the same five stories of animal bonding experiences throughout our entire 13-hour drive home (who's counting?).

"Remember when Isaiah put his paw up and gave me a high-five?"

"Remember when the orange kitty dragged the mouse by her tail?"

"Remember when we went on a kitty hunt?"

I get the impression she likes cats. And wants not one, but four of them. Just like Nene and Bubby. To this I say, Thank You allergies.

It was very hard to leave them because we had planned to go to Colorado for six days alone. I don't mean alone alone, as we would be staying with friends and then in a house that sleeps nine people, but alone meaning we would embark from their house as just two adults with only our own mouths to feed and our own butts to wipe. It's always hard to leave the kids, but marriages need attention too. And sometimes you just have to head to a large annual music festival in the mountains of Telluride, go horseback riding in Durango along the way, and drink lots of cocktails with your honey.

Which we did. And it was awesome. Almost all of it was beautiful and restorative, which is what all vacations should be. The kids had a blast. They went to the zoo. They went to the Aquarium. And perhaps most exotic of all, they went to church. They slept longer hours than they do at home, which had me scratching my head, but I think it must have been the showering of attention from two grandparents, one aunt and a super fun cousin, as well as the crisp night air flowing in from open windows that must have done it.

We had a lovely reunion with them on our drive back in Balmorhea, which did more than makeup for the lying we endured in Pecos. If you ever happen to travel through West Texas, and need to stop for a night off Highway 10, please consider the accommodations of the El Oso Flojo Lodge. It has a little river that flows beside it and a restaurant next door that advertises itself as Balmorhea's "Cutest Little Restaurant in Town." Unlike the Holiday Inn & Suites, those Balmarheans know how to advertise with dignity.

After wearing my winter coat a few nights prior while swaying to Bluegrass music under to Colorado stars, we were welcomed back to Texas with 104 degree heat.

Thanks Texas, I love you too.

And thanks Nene and Bubby for taking such good care of our little monkeys.

Mwah!