I'm sorry....I meant absence. I must have just put that as the title because I was thinking about the other day when my mother told me Miley Cyrus got caught smoking a bong and she claimed it was "Absinthe" (which keeps going in and out of legality, by the way) and NOT Pot. Of course we believe you, Miley! Not.
Poor girl. A role model to millions and she can't have fun by doing anything illegal. She's been robbed of the adolescent ability to know right from wrong and knowingly choose the wrong. Instead of her parents and and their friends finding out about her mistakes, she's got the whole world to worry about. Neighborhood gossip at its finest: The Tabloids.
Anyway, this is about me, NOT Miley. I felt that perhaps that was a lighthearted lead-in to what is sure to be a semi-depressing post. Sooooo.....let's get to it.
Please excuse my prolonged absence.
I haven’t been feeling like myself lately. So I haven’t been doing my normal things. I love writing, yet I haven’t been able to bring myself to come here. I LOVE going out (perhaps sometimes too much) but I haven’t been able to make myself go.
I blame gray Kansas City.
Don’t get me wrong: I LOVE Kansas City….in the summertime. And during the holidays. But after the holidays and during the months of January and February (which I am convinced are the two most pointless months of the entire year), it’s cold and gray and there’s nothing going on. So I’d just rather sleep.
I realized this when, night after night, my friends would call me around 9/10ish telling me to go out with them aaaaaaaand I was in bed. In my pajamas in the dark having taken off my make-up, I was settling in with Bon Iver and getting ready to pass the F out. At 9pm. Am I a BABY?!?! It’s not like I planned to go to bed at this time. In fact, I never even looked at the clock until they would scream, “HALEY!!! IT’S 9:30!!!!”
“Ohh, really? I thought it was much later. Anyway, I’m going to pass. I’m tired.” And I would almost instantaneously escape into dreamland as I hung up.
I couldn’t bear the thought of tearing myself from my warm bed, getting dressed and re-doing my make-up to go out into the 20-something weather and drive 30 minutes to get where we wanted to go. That’s the other thing about Kansas City: we all live so far away from each other and the bars that it takes time, energy, and effort to get somewhere. And that’s the time, energy and effort I just don’t seem to have right now. So I fall asleep.
Whew, what a depressing post!
Don’t worry, my break hasn’t been so low-key and full of nothingness. I’ve had some really great times that, incidentally, can’t be recorded on the Internet. For future employer’s sake. And yours. And mine. But some can and will be recorded. Just not right now. I don’t have time: I’m going on a run. That’s where I do most of my thinking. It’s where I clear my head. And where I come up with some of my blog posts because I have the time to think. I made this quick little one because I felt like I owed you an explanation.
And if you didn’t need/want one, I did. So there it is.
Enjoy the months of January and February—I’ll be trying to pretend it’s June.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Sunday, December 26, 2010
I found a dead person.
Kind of. Maybe.
Ok, it's kind of a stretch for a conclusion, but what do you expect from me? It's semi-viable.
Let me explain.
It's Christmas Day and I have set my alarm for 7:30 AM so that we can open presents as a family at 8:00 sharp and then head down to the homeless shelter to prepare food for those who can't afford a meal on Christmas.
I'm not joking.
My dad always cooks up these half-brained ideas and throws them together at the last minute. And, to please our ever-adoring and giving father, my brothers and I succumb to the prepositions and blindly follow along. This is what happened two days before Christmas. My parents called us all into the kitchen to make an announcement.
Father: "We are going to do something to benefit mankind on Christmas Day."
Me: "Are we going to plant a tree?"
Father: "No, better."
Hayden (13-yr-old): "Are we going to give away money?"
Father: "No, better."
Spencer (sophomore in college; king of the frat boys) says with a dry tone of voice and a look in his eyes that screams 'you've GOT to be kidding me' as he slumps down in his seat: "We're going to a homeless shelter."
Father, gleaming with pride: "THAT'S RIGHT! On Christmas morning, we are going to go work at a homeless shelter for a few hours."
Hayden, with a look of utter horror: "BUT WHAT ABOUT OPENING OUR PRESENTS?!?!?!?!?!?"
Father: "We can open them before or after we serve food for 4 hours."
**All children look at each other like WTF?**
Me, trying to encourage the idea onto my brothers: "OK, yeah this is a good idea guys. We can do it. It'll be....fun."
**Brothers look at me like "you better sleep with one eye open, Haley, because we'll never forgive you for this."**
So it's decided: we're going to the homeless shelter on Christmas morning to help prepare and deliver food.
So, that morning, we all get into the car and drive to downtown Kansas City. And when I say "downtown", I mean the 'hood. All of a sudden, my dad pulls onto 4th and Quindaro and says, "Now, kids, this is the most dangerous street in all of Kansas City."
"WHAAAAAAAAT!?!?!" Hayden yelps.
"Don't worry. It's 9AM. Every one's in bed. We're not in any real danger. At least I don't think so...." Father says.
I check to make sure my door is locked and I secretly pray that the windows are bulletproof, but I'm pretty sure they're not. We're in a Ford.
"Why are we in the 'hood, Dad?" Spencer asks.
"Because...this is where people need help the most."
"Ohhhh, oooooooook." We all look at each other, not knowing what to expect next.
We pull up to a Baptist Church and find the parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence and pad locks. Super. But I think, "It's Christmas. Surely we won't get murdered on Christmas for trying to help the needy." That's all I've got to stick to for the next few hours, so I'm hoping I'm right.
Mother: "Uhh...Marty, you're gonna go inside and talk to someone and make sure we're at the right place before we all get out of the car, right?"
Father: "Sure, no problem."
My mother looks at me like "what did we get ourselves into this time?" but I'm semi-confident that we'll be alright.
Everything checks out to be normal, so we go inside. I am immediately given the task of putting together and taping cardboard boxes for delivery. I'm not allowed near the food. After manning a taping gun for over an hour and producing many, many cardboard boxes, my mom says I should drop out of SMU and seriously consider applying for UPS. Thanks mom. I'll do that.
Our shift is about over when they ask my mom and I if we are going to deliver food to people's houses. We look at each other and don't know what to say. We're not sure if we signed up for that. "We can deliver food to a few families," my mother says. "Ok, great!" the woman says. "We have a few families on your way home."
We leave. I volunteer to get out at the first stop and take the food up to the door. I ring the doorbell. I wait a little while, then I ring again. Maybe it doesn’t work. So I knock. And then again. My dad rolls down the window and says, “He might be hard of hearing, so knock really loudly.” “I did the first couple of times, but I’ll try it again.” So this time, I turn my hand into a fist and begin banging on the door. Everyone and their mom should have been able to hear that. Still no answer.
Detective mode kicks in and I begin to take in my surroundings. The car is in the driveway, so he’s got to be home. He’s not on vacation because if he can’t afford food, then he can’t afford to go anywhere. There’s a bunch of stuff on the front porch and then I spot the mailbox. Full.
(Ok, I know this is kind of illegal to look through someone’s mail but I was kind of beginning to get worried that something was wrong. And the mailbox was open, so I didn’t open it myself. I just looked inside.)
And I saw mail post-marked for December 10th, 14th, and 16th. AND a Netflix that had been there for awhile. Ok, I don’t know about you, but people who order Netflix watch those puppies as soon as they arrive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Netflix sit in a mailbox before. People have those coming and going as fast as possible so they maximize their monthly rate. Also, the mail hadn’t been picked up for two weeks? Ok, I understand not picking your mail up for a few days when your mailbox is a community mailbox down the street, but when your mailbox is literally at your front door that you walk in and out of multiple times a day? You would most certainly pick it up one of the times you walk through the door, right? This led me to believe that this man had not left his house for almost two weeks. Red flag.
I put the meal on a chair on the front porch and walk back to the car. “Dad, I don’t hear anything inside. Not a person, a T.V., radio, cat, dog, or anything. Should we call the police?” I ask.
“Yeah, I think we probably should. That really isn’t a good sign.”
So my dad calls the police, gives them all of the information I discovered and his own contact information. They say they’ll send someone over to check it out and they may need to contact us if the investigation needs to be furthered. “Ok, thanks,” my dad says as he hangs up.
We all look at each other. “I hope he isn’t dead!” my mother says. “Duh, mom,” says Spencer.
So then we go home, get ready to go over to our grandparents' house, and proceed with our normal Christmas activities.
I put on my new boots that I had been eyeing for months and am SO glad I got as a present. I'm such a lucky girl.
And, because of our trip to the ‘hood and almost finding a dead person inside of their house, I am very thankful that I have enough good fortune to receive presents and food for Christmas AND that I’m not dead.
Merry Christmas!!!!!!
Ok, it's kind of a stretch for a conclusion, but what do you expect from me? It's semi-viable.
Let me explain.
It's Christmas Day and I have set my alarm for 7:30 AM so that we can open presents as a family at 8:00 sharp and then head down to the homeless shelter to prepare food for those who can't afford a meal on Christmas.
I'm not joking.
My dad always cooks up these half-brained ideas and throws them together at the last minute. And, to please our ever-adoring and giving father, my brothers and I succumb to the prepositions and blindly follow along. This is what happened two days before Christmas. My parents called us all into the kitchen to make an announcement.
Father: "We are going to do something to benefit mankind on Christmas Day."
Me: "Are we going to plant a tree?"
Father: "No, better."
Hayden (13-yr-old): "Are we going to give away money?"
Father: "No, better."
Spencer (sophomore in college; king of the frat boys) says with a dry tone of voice and a look in his eyes that screams 'you've GOT to be kidding me' as he slumps down in his seat: "We're going to a homeless shelter."
Father, gleaming with pride: "THAT'S RIGHT! On Christmas morning, we are going to go work at a homeless shelter for a few hours."
Hayden, with a look of utter horror: "BUT WHAT ABOUT OPENING OUR PRESENTS?!?!?!?!?!?"
Father: "We can open them before or after we serve food for 4 hours."
**All children look at each other like WTF?**
Me, trying to encourage the idea onto my brothers: "OK, yeah this is a good idea guys. We can do it. It'll be....fun."
**Brothers look at me like "you better sleep with one eye open, Haley, because we'll never forgive you for this."**
So it's decided: we're going to the homeless shelter on Christmas morning to help prepare and deliver food.
So, that morning, we all get into the car and drive to downtown Kansas City. And when I say "downtown", I mean the 'hood. All of a sudden, my dad pulls onto 4th and Quindaro and says, "Now, kids, this is the most dangerous street in all of Kansas City."
"WHAAAAAAAAT!?!?!" Hayden yelps.
"Don't worry. It's 9AM. Every one's in bed. We're not in any real danger. At least I don't think so...." Father says.
I check to make sure my door is locked and I secretly pray that the windows are bulletproof, but I'm pretty sure they're not. We're in a Ford.
"Why are we in the 'hood, Dad?" Spencer asks.
"Because...this is where people need help the most."
"Ohhhh, oooooooook." We all look at each other, not knowing what to expect next.
We pull up to a Baptist Church and find the parking lot surrounded by a chain link fence and pad locks. Super. But I think, "It's Christmas. Surely we won't get murdered on Christmas for trying to help the needy." That's all I've got to stick to for the next few hours, so I'm hoping I'm right.
Mother: "Uhh...Marty, you're gonna go inside and talk to someone and make sure we're at the right place before we all get out of the car, right?"
Father: "Sure, no problem."
My mother looks at me like "what did we get ourselves into this time?" but I'm semi-confident that we'll be alright.
Everything checks out to be normal, so we go inside. I am immediately given the task of putting together and taping cardboard boxes for delivery. I'm not allowed near the food. After manning a taping gun for over an hour and producing many, many cardboard boxes, my mom says I should drop out of SMU and seriously consider applying for UPS. Thanks mom. I'll do that.
Our shift is about over when they ask my mom and I if we are going to deliver food to people's houses. We look at each other and don't know what to say. We're not sure if we signed up for that. "We can deliver food to a few families," my mother says. "Ok, great!" the woman says. "We have a few families on your way home."
We leave. I volunteer to get out at the first stop and take the food up to the door. I ring the doorbell. I wait a little while, then I ring again. Maybe it doesn’t work. So I knock. And then again. My dad rolls down the window and says, “He might be hard of hearing, so knock really loudly.” “I did the first couple of times, but I’ll try it again.” So this time, I turn my hand into a fist and begin banging on the door. Everyone and their mom should have been able to hear that. Still no answer.
Detective mode kicks in and I begin to take in my surroundings. The car is in the driveway, so he’s got to be home. He’s not on vacation because if he can’t afford food, then he can’t afford to go anywhere. There’s a bunch of stuff on the front porch and then I spot the mailbox. Full.
(Ok, I know this is kind of illegal to look through someone’s mail but I was kind of beginning to get worried that something was wrong. And the mailbox was open, so I didn’t open it myself. I just looked inside.)
And I saw mail post-marked for December 10th, 14th, and 16th. AND a Netflix that had been there for awhile. Ok, I don’t know about you, but people who order Netflix watch those puppies as soon as they arrive. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Netflix sit in a mailbox before. People have those coming and going as fast as possible so they maximize their monthly rate. Also, the mail hadn’t been picked up for two weeks? Ok, I understand not picking your mail up for a few days when your mailbox is a community mailbox down the street, but when your mailbox is literally at your front door that you walk in and out of multiple times a day? You would most certainly pick it up one of the times you walk through the door, right? This led me to believe that this man had not left his house for almost two weeks. Red flag.
I put the meal on a chair on the front porch and walk back to the car. “Dad, I don’t hear anything inside. Not a person, a T.V., radio, cat, dog, or anything. Should we call the police?” I ask.
“Yeah, I think we probably should. That really isn’t a good sign.”
So my dad calls the police, gives them all of the information I discovered and his own contact information. They say they’ll send someone over to check it out and they may need to contact us if the investigation needs to be furthered. “Ok, thanks,” my dad says as he hangs up.
We all look at each other. “I hope he isn’t dead!” my mother says. “Duh, mom,” says Spencer.
So then we go home, get ready to go over to our grandparents' house, and proceed with our normal Christmas activities.
I put on my new boots that I had been eyeing for months and am SO glad I got as a present. I'm such a lucky girl.
And, because of our trip to the ‘hood and almost finding a dead person inside of their house, I am very thankful that I have enough good fortune to receive presents and food for Christmas AND that I’m not dead.
Merry Christmas!!!!!!
Friday, December 24, 2010
The Old Haunts
I am slowly but surely becoming my mother. Not only do I look like her, but now I seem to talk like her (using the same phrases and inflection in my voice), act like her and think like her.
Not that I'm complaining. If you've ever met my mother, you might say it's a blessing to turn out like her. She's nice and beautiful. I could only be so lucky to be like her.
Anyway, I went out with my friends last night. We met at a bar that I am more than familiar with. I've never been there to drink, but I've been going there since the age of 8 to eat dinner and hang out with the kids of the parents my mom and dad were meeting there. I hadn't been there for a few years, but as soon as I walked in, everything was so familiar.
My mom used to go there all the time for the past 30 years. I've heard a lot of funny stories (with many details left out, I'm sure) about happenings at that place. She used to go there with her friends.....and now I go there with my friends. Weird.
Last night walking in, I stupidly thought that I probably wouldn't know anyone there. MISTAKE. As soon as I sat down at my friends' table and looked to my left, I saw a boy I used to go to daycare, grade school and high school with. He was with his parents who are friends of my parents. They didn't recognize me (usually no one does at first these days) because I dyed my hair from blond to dark brown. I LOVE IT! Anyway, I went over to talk to them and got the usual questions, "How's school? Are you still rowing? Are you having a good break?" etc.
Then I went to the bathroom and was walking back to the bar when, all of a sudden, someone grabs my hand and goes, "Haley ******?" I turn to see the arm attached to a 50-year-old man. I have no idea who he is, but he must know my parents. "I'm *gives name*. I went to high school with your mom." Another man says something and I turn to face the husband of a woman who works with my mom and is the basketball coach at a local high school. I am kind of dying inside because I am a little tipsy and not fully prepared to carry on an intellectual conversation with these two men, but what do they expect? I'm 21 and on break. It's acceptable. Therefore, I politely sit down and allow them to ask me questions about, yes, rowing and college. After 10 minutes of trying to sound smart and completely sober, I thank them for saying hello and will pass their regards on to my mother. I walk back to the other room where my friends are and practically melt into a seat at the bar. I barely squeezed by that one.
I've GOT to stop going to my mother's old haunts. More events like this one are bound to happen. I should probably just prepare myself right now.
Not that I'm complaining. If you've ever met my mother, you might say it's a blessing to turn out like her. She's nice and beautiful. I could only be so lucky to be like her.
Anyway, I went out with my friends last night. We met at a bar that I am more than familiar with. I've never been there to drink, but I've been going there since the age of 8 to eat dinner and hang out with the kids of the parents my mom and dad were meeting there. I hadn't been there for a few years, but as soon as I walked in, everything was so familiar.
My mom used to go there all the time for the past 30 years. I've heard a lot of funny stories (with many details left out, I'm sure) about happenings at that place. She used to go there with her friends.....and now I go there with my friends. Weird.
Last night walking in, I stupidly thought that I probably wouldn't know anyone there. MISTAKE. As soon as I sat down at my friends' table and looked to my left, I saw a boy I used to go to daycare, grade school and high school with. He was with his parents who are friends of my parents. They didn't recognize me (usually no one does at first these days) because I dyed my hair from blond to dark brown. I LOVE IT! Anyway, I went over to talk to them and got the usual questions, "How's school? Are you still rowing? Are you having a good break?" etc.
Then I went to the bathroom and was walking back to the bar when, all of a sudden, someone grabs my hand and goes, "Haley ******?" I turn to see the arm attached to a 50-year-old man. I have no idea who he is, but he must know my parents. "I'm *gives name*. I went to high school with your mom." Another man says something and I turn to face the husband of a woman who works with my mom and is the basketball coach at a local high school. I am kind of dying inside because I am a little tipsy and not fully prepared to carry on an intellectual conversation with these two men, but what do they expect? I'm 21 and on break. It's acceptable. Therefore, I politely sit down and allow them to ask me questions about, yes, rowing and college. After 10 minutes of trying to sound smart and completely sober, I thank them for saying hello and will pass their regards on to my mother. I walk back to the other room where my friends are and practically melt into a seat at the bar. I barely squeezed by that one.
I've GOT to stop going to my mother's old haunts. More events like this one are bound to happen. I should probably just prepare myself right now.
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