my life begins with balloons and streamers

It is New Year's Eve.

I am sitting on the couch next to Paul, while he watches Survivor Man. Survivor Man just caught a fish and Paul is watching all intent-like. I bet he's taking mental notes on what to do should he ever find himself stranded in the arctic with nothing but a canoe and his wiles.

We ordered Indian food, and when I am done posting I will make hot chocolate and I will ask Paul about his favorite part of Survivor Man and then I will fall asleep while reading. Maybe I will be awake at midnight, but probably not.

I am thinking about my brother John. He just turned fourteen and he gets to go to his first church dance tonight. And that makes me think about my first dance, on New Year's Eve after I had turned fourteen.

I curled my hair and I wore this new plaid dress that I got for Christmas and I think I went with friends but I don't remember. I just remember walking into the church building and you could hear music from inside and it was so exciting my heart was beating all fast because I might meet the love of my life.

The room was all decorated with streamers and balloons and the lights were dim and people were dancing and it was like life began right there, like life began with balloons and streamers and boys.

I know I was there with friends but why can't I remember who? It was probably Stacy, or Gail, or Jenn, but I can't see their faces in my memory. In my mind it is only me, in the middle of my life beginning.

We stand in a circle, me and my faceless friends, and it is a fast song and I try to find the beat, try to learn how to move to the music and I am awkward but it gets better and someone taps me on the shoulder and it's a boy.

He tells me I look beautiful and my heart soars because I have waited my whole life to hear that and I have braces and my nose is too big for my face but I can't afford plastic surgery and my mom wouldn't approve anyways and so to hear this boy tell me I am beautiful is amazing.

His name is Keith and he asks me to dance twice and he maybe holds me just a little too close but it's exciting and he's sixteen and he lives in Camarillo. I think Keith is a good name and I wonder will I marry Keith because I'm always wondering who I will marry.

Then the dance is over, and the lights turn on and everyone is standing there, all sweaty, and nobody looks quite as good as they did when the lights were dim. Mom picks me up and I am floating as I ride in the blue minivan because my life just began.

And now I am sitting on the couch and I think about John and I want to reach three-thousand miles to California and give him a hug. I wonder if he'll feel like his life is beginning.

Probably not. I don't think balloons and streamers have quite the same effect on him.

i experience a desperate lack of occupation

I am bored.

I'm kind of hesitant to admit that. When I was a kid and I'd say I was bored my mom would always be like "I'll give you something to do" and then I'd have to sew lace on her bedspread and I'd do a really cruddy job and then we'd both be worse off.

The thing is, I've already done laundry and I baked cookies and made soup and I washed the dishes and made the bed and I fed the cats and made phone calls and now, here I am, dangerously close to dressing my cats up in my old baby clothes.

It's kind of nice to be bored. I mean, I haven't blogged for like the last month because I've been doing all this school stuff and apparently the in-charge people at school are kind of serious about that whole finals thing.

But now I'm all re-charged and stuff and ready to blog, and I have nothing interesting to say. Nothing. For reals. I walked out of my front door a couple of weeks ago and there was this dude peeing into the gutter. And I'm out. That's it. See? Boring.

Does anyone need babysitting? I'll watch your kids for you. Need a wet-nurse? I actually can't help you. Also you might be in a different century. Need your house cleaned? I can do that, although in the spirit of full disclosure if I am sweeping I don't always pull the couch out and sweep behind it.

Yeah, so if you need any of that stuff, or anything else that doesn't involve firearms or confrontation or eating vegetables, I'd love to help out. For now, I think I'm going to eat several oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and pass out on the couch while watching Pride and Prejudice. The BBC version. Because it has Colin Firth.

And that should be the only explanation needed.

how to make moonshine

Just in time for your Thanksgiving festivities:

First, make waffle batter for dinner. Don't make all the waffles, though. Make sure there's a good amount left.

Then, cover it up so it doesn't go bad, but forget to put it in the refrigerator. That step is super important, okay? DON'T PUT IN REFRIGERATOR.

Alrighty. Then, you just leave the bowl sitting on the counter, for like five days. If you feel like you need to wash it, don't. Tell yourself that your husband/roommate/sister/aunt will do it for you.

After it's been like a week and you notice the kitchen smells suspiciously like a brewery, remove the cover from the bowl. If you think there's a good chance that the bowl could grow legs and walk out of your kitchen all on its own, then....great news, you're done!

I submitted the recipe to Martha Stewart. I haven't heard back yet, but she's really busy.

Happy Thanksgiving!

do you like my blog's new lipstick?

I gave my blog a makeover.

Again.

This time, I had help. My friend Jake did me a solid and helped me out. And me likey. Me likey mucho.

Thanks, Jake.

it wasn't me.....

Tonight Paul and I were walking to the grocery store and there was this woman in front of us and she let rip this HUGE NASTY TOOT.

It was kind of awesome, in a really gross way.

I guess sometimes you just really have to toot and you don't care that there are two people behind you giggling.

Eeeeeeeewwwww.

every time i think i know

I thought I knew what it meant.

The atonement, I mean. I thought I knew. I grew up being taught about Jesus, that he lived a perfect life and sacrificed himself, that he atoned for the sins of mankind and because of that sacrifice we can be forgiven of our sins. And because I knew that, because I've always been taught that, I think maybe sometimes I'm a little too casual about it. Kind of like that friend who always pulls through, so sometimes you forget what an awesome friend you have. Know what I mean?

A couple of weeks ago a friend asked me to participate in a musical program for church. It's the stories of women in the Old Testament, women who met Jesus, told through song. They asked me to be a narrator, and I was like, yeah. I have a voice. I can narrate. So I said okay.

And I went to rehearsal and there were all these women with these incredible voices, voices that move and melt and do all the awesome things that a voice can do and I was like....uh....hey, guys. I'll just be over here, talking. Don't mind me.

I kind of wondered what I could possibly add. I mean, these women are amazing. I'm a tad embarrassed to admit that I didn't really give much thought to my part at first. I kind of figured no one would be paying me any mind, until after one of the rehearsals the director asked us narrators to really think about what we were saying, about what we felt, what we had a testimony of. And I was like, "right. Think. I can think."

So, I thought about it. I thought about my own personal experience with the Savior. When I was teeny tiny my parents were how I knew about Jesus. They told me He loved me, and I believed them. They told me that if I was afraid, or if I was hurt or if I needed help, Jesus knew how to help because of the atonement. And that was enough. I didn't really understand exactly how, but mom and dad really believed, and that belief was enough for me.

Then this one time I got a summer job. I had to feed our neighbor's dogs and water their lawn while they went on vacation. They paid me a lot of money. And all I had to do was unlock the gate and water the lawn and feed the dogs.Seriously, it was like fifteen bucks. It was going to keep me in Snickers bars for like two months.

So this one morning I went, only the key wouldn't open the gate, and I just climbed over and did my thing and it was fine except for when I needed to go back home I was like, shoot. I can't climb back over the gate.

And I was alone and I was scared and the dogs were just big enough to be scary and the only thing I knew to do was pray. So, I prayed. Maybe that was the first time I ever prayed for something because I really needed it. I knelt on the concrete by the fence and I folded my arms and I prayed like there was no tomorrow, which at the moment felt like a very real possibility.

Heavenly Father, please, tell my mom. Please, tell my mom. I need help. The gate's too high and I'm too small. Just please.

And I sat there and cried and resigned myself to a fate of eating dog food and sleeping on grass and then like fifteen minutes later, I heard the most beautiful thing in the whole wide world:

My mom's voice. And she was like "Andrea, are you okay?" and I was like "noI'mnot okayI'mscared" and I tossed my mom the key and she opened the gate and we walked home.

And I asked her how she knew. She said she was making her bed, and she heard a voice that told her she should go check on Andrea. Only she was sure I was fine, and so she ignored it and then the voice came again, loud this time, and it said GO CHECK ON ANDREA and she stopped making the bed and she found me. I was lost, and she found me.

That's the first time I remember feeling what I had heard my parents tell me for so many years: that Jesus knew. He knew how to help. Not just that He knew how to help, but that He would help.

And I thought I knew it all then, everything about how the Savior loved me.

And then it was years later and I wasn't in such a great place in my life. I was smack in the middle of my angst ridden teenage girl phase and it had been a long time since I'd thought about that morning when I knelt on the concrete so afraid, a long time since I'd thought about needing anything other than exactly what I wanted right then.

But then something happened and it was bad. I woke up and there was someone in my room and then my world changed from one where scary things are only in movies to a world where someone goes into your room who doesn't belong there.

And I was scared, and I needed help. And I prayed. I prayed and I felt love and I couldn't explain it because I didn't feel like I deserved it, but it was there and it was real and I knew where it came from.

Then it was after and sometimes I couldn't stop crying and nobody could make it go away, but then I remembered that the atonement means to forgive everyone and I wondered, could I do that? And so I gave the hurt I had over to the Lord and He washed away the anger and it isn't there anymore.

And it was a miracle. Something so much bigger than me, something so wrong that nobody could make better and a hole so huge it could have swallowed me up and it was like someone had taken a magic eraser pencil to all the hurt and I thought I knew, then, everything there was to know about how the Savior loved me.

Now, it's, well, now. And I have a good life, a good husband, plenty of blessings. More than I deserve.

But I want to be a parent, and I'm not.

I don't understand why. I've tried. I've been patient. I've said things like "it'll happen when it's time" and "I'm just trying to be happy in the moment" and "everything happens for a reason" but there comes a point when all the words don't work and you see it for what it is: hard. Just plain hard.

I've gone to the doctor. I've been poked and prodded and my body has become this crazy science experiment and I am left with only questions and no answers and faced with the possibility that this might be a problem without an answer. A problem with no cure. I feel broken, sometimes.

And one day I was feeling angry and sad and wondering why this is so hard for me, because I can do hard things and then I realized, maybe I can do hard things, but not alone. I need help. And that's exactly what the atonement is there for.

I have to believe that, though. And sometimes believing is hard. Pain is so familiar, sometimes. Pain is real and justified, and hope sometimes isn't, you know?

Maybe this is a problem that can't be fixed. I don't have that answer yet. And while the answer might not be my giving birth, here's what I believe: the atonement can wipe away all that pain and yuckiness and I can be happy.

I believe I'm going to be a parent someday. I believe it. I feel it. I know it. And maybe there is nothing in my life right now to make me think that's true, but I don't care. I so don't care. Because I know it.

I don't think I know anymore. I think the Savior knows. He knows me. That's what I think. That's what I believe.

That's what I know.

heaven is a milkshake

A toasted marshmallow milkshake, that is.

Seriously.

I read on my friend Katie's blog about this burger place that makes toasted marshmallow milkshakes. I know. And so, I thought, what better way to celebrate finally running a mile without stopping than with a frosty mug of blended, refined white sugar?

So, Paul and I went and got us some. It was like a near death experience. There was a light, and Paul was there, and....

Okay, maybe it was in no way like a near death experience. I was kind of lying about there being a light. Although this is New York and there are lots of lights. But it was totally like heaven.

So, for anyone who's interested, if you want to go to heaven, just take the 6 train to Union Square, walk a few blocks to Stand 4 Burgers, and order the toasted marshmallow milkshake.

Mmmmmmmmm.

take that, junior high P.E.

And the award for Running a Whole Stinking Mile Without Stopping or Puking Her Guts Out goes to......

ANDREA BOOOOEEEREEEM!!!!!

WHAAAA!!!! HOOOOOO!!! HAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

This is such a surprise! I didn't even have a speech prepared. Well, first, I would like to thank BFF Jen Bennion for patiently jogging at a snail's pace with me and saying nice stuff like"you probably won't die" and "really, you're not going to die".

I would also like to thank Jen for bringing her baby Violet, who is one of the Cutest Babies in the World, and I am quite certain my death defying feat would have been impossible were it not for her enthusiastic cooing.

Also I would like to thank Fort Tryon Park for being so leafy and pretty and for not having any potholes for me to fall into and break my ever loving neck. Also thanks to Fort Tryon Park for being so park-y. Really, nice job with those plants.

And a shout out goes to the Hudson River, just for being there. Well done, river. Well done.

And no thanks whatsoever to the minivan and the Toyota Corolla who cut us off in front of the Cloisters. I still did it, but no thanks to you. See what happens when you misbehave? Now I'm not going to put you in my movie.

Lastly, a great big thank you to my body, for not stopping, puking, or dying. Thanks, body. I couldn't have done it without you.

housecleaning

Hey, so if you look at my blog roll and all of a sudden your blog isn't there, it's not because you punched me and now I'm mad at you or anything.

Although if you punched me I might be a little peeved.

It's just that I noticed it had been a while since you blogged, and I figured you've moved on to bigger and better things, like winning Pulitzer prizes and stuff like that.

I still love you just as much.

no man is an island

Last night, I slept in our bed.

Normally, of course, that's not unusual. It's just that I've been hacking up a lung for like the last week, and whenever I lie down my lungs think that's a cue for them to start acting up. So, I banished myself to the couch, because I didn't want to keep Paul awake.

The first night, I think Paul was worried. He came out in the morning looking all concerned and was like, "did I say something?", and I responded by promptly coughing up approximately six and a half tons of phlegm.

Yuck.

And yesterday was Paul's birthday and I thought what would be a better birthday present than a good night's sleep?

See, I'm not the best sleeper even when I'm not infected. You know when you watch romantic comedies and there's that shot where the dude sees the girl sleeping and she looks all angelic?

Well, I am not that girl.

I am an Ugly Sleeper. Really. First, I like to wedge myself directly underneath Paul, after which I proceed to drool, grind my teeth, and mutter weird things in a strangely high-pitched voice. Ugly. Add constant coughing and, well.....

I just didn't want to go there. Even I have my limits.

Yesterday morning Paul woke me up, and I wiped the drool off my face and shouted HAPPY BIRTHDAY, and Paul smiled at me.

"You can sleep in bed, you know," he said. "I'll just get earplugs."

And I thought, that's a beautiful moment we just had. Marriage is all about compromise. Also earplugs.

cha-cha-changes

I gave my blog a haircut.

I went with minimalism.

I'm going to have my friend Jake do some blog design for me. He's kind of a tech-y genius.

If you don't like my blog's haircut, that's okay. It can always grow back.

Just don't say anything mean, okay, because then my blog might cry and then I would have to soundly kick your trash. And I really hate doing that.

Okay, bye.

eating stew with paul (what i love about today)

What I love about today is that it's Paul's birthday.

I also love that I got to take a shower so hot that my skin turned lobster pink, and I love that it's the perfect weather for beef stew and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.

Most of all, though, I love that it's Paul's birthday.

I'm glad he was born.

Also, I'm glad he grew up and married me even though (or is it because?) I have the entire screenplay for The Music Man, Fiddler on the Roof, and Oklahoma! committed to memory.

And I'm also glad he decided not to abandon me when he found that out.

Also I like the gap in-between his front teeth.

The other thing I love about today is that in approximately one hour and forty minutes, Paul will ring the buzzer and come upstairs and we will eat beef stew and oatmeal chocolate chip cookies together, after which he will allow me to sing Happy Birthday to him even though he doesn't like birthdays at all.

Not even a little bit.

thoughts while eating a fun-size snickers bar

I really like Halloween.

My reasons are threefold: first, I rejoice in the fact that there is a holiday centered entirely around candy and dressing up (two of the best things in the world), second, I really love candy, and third, I also really, really love candy.

While it is perhaps slightly less socially acceptable for me to eat candy for breakfast, lunch and dinner now than, say, when I was nine, my love for Halloween hasn 't faded a bit. The only thing that makes me kind of sad is that I will never again be as cute in a Halloween costume as when I was a kid.

My time has passed, you know? I had my glory days, when all I had to do was put on a tutu or a crown or my mom's high heel shoes and everyone was like "Awwwww....". Now I'm just another washed up thirty year old wearing a Cinderella crown while I chase some Swedish Fish with Yoohoo. And people still go "Awwww...", only now I get the feeling it's for a different reason.

Except for this year, I didn't dress up because I was sick and Paul wouldn't let me go to any Halloween parties because he didn't want me infecting any kids. Whatever. Honestly, I think he's a little embarrassed to be seen with me on Halloween and he saw my sickness as a blessing from God. Potato, po-tahto.

Well, that's life, you know? You buy some cough medicine, and hang up your Halloween costume and you eat like a pound of candy and you move on, right? If I could go back, (not that I would, okay?) I would totally go back to fifth grade when I dressed up as half of a pair of dice and I wore my black leotard and black tights and I had this box that I painted white and stuck black dots all over it and I won best costume and got to sit in the special chair shaped like a huge hand all day.

But that was then, and this is now.

And I'll always have the fifth grade. And candy.

Let's not forget about candy.

the cat wears the pants

Andrea: There are pants on the floor.

Paul: It was the cat.

Andrea: Except for the cat doesn't wear clothes.

Paul: Not when you're home......

the beautiful logic of husbands

Hey, guys.

Long time no blog.

I swear I have a really good reason.

Well, maybe not.

It's just that I started at Columbia last month, and I've been so busy buying tweed and going to protests and writing really long papers about things that I in no way understand that I kind of slipped on this whole blogging thing.

Everything is different now, though. For reals. Seriously. I, Andrea Boerem, solemnly promise to no longer neglect my blog no matter how much I might need tweed. (mental note: need for tweed. Work this into a conversation somehow.)

I actually should be doing homework right now, but my brain was overheating and also guess what happened this morning:

So, my sister got into town this morning, and since I'd like my sister to think that I'm a reasonably clean person, I took it upon myself last night to thoroughly clean our apartment. And Paul helped.

Paul knows how stressed out I can get about cleanliness when people come over. I think it's because while I have learned how to be a clean person, I am not naturally a clean person. I'm kind of like an addict, a mess junky living one day to the next just hoping I don't wake up in the middle of a pile of Ben and Jerry's containers.

So, last night when I was buzzing from room to room shouting things like WE SHOULD REALLY CALL THE SUPER ABOUT THE CRUMBLING WALL IN OUR CLOSET and I'M JUST GOING TO PAINT THE WINDOWSILL REALLY FAST, Paul sweetly ignored my panicked rants and did the dishes. He knows how I hate a dirty sink.

Which is why when Miriam got in this morning and I offered her a bowl of cereal, I was rather amused to find, sitting in the refrigerator in front of the milk carton, an empty (but dirty) Tupperware container.

I pulled it out. Paul finished the pork, I said. And he stuck the container back in the fridge. Nice one, Paul. And Miriam and I shared a laugh. Oh, husbands. And then I realized: Paul stuck it back in the fridge because he knew how mad I'd be to see a dirty dish sitting in the sink.

And I was so touched by his thoughtful gesture that the fact he stuck a dirty food receptacle in our refrigerator was in no way annoying.

When Paul woke up, I teased him. You couldn't wash a dish, I asked.

Well, I was tired, Paul said. It's just I knew how mad you'd be if you saw it in the sink.

The logic of husbands. I kind of love it.

i am liberated by a lie

On Monday at approximately 5:14 p.m., I told a deliberate and premeditated lie.

I don't normally lie. At all. Actually I'm a pretty terrible liar. There was this one time when I was like six and three quarters and I knew mom had a birthday present under the seat of the blue mini-van, and so I went outside and I peeked. It was the box set of Little House on the Prairie. I felt this tiny thrill course through my body and I went back inside and mom was like, where were you, and I was like, there was....a really big star.

And that's pretty much how bad I've always been at lying. Until Monday.

I was walking out of the Columbia campus after a solid eight hours of orientation. It was good and all, but after like eight hours of hearing that the journey I am about to embark upon will be the most gut wrenching and difficult thing in like the history of the world, I was ready for some Chinese food and Judge Judy reruns. So, not so much feeling like talking to people.

There's this hair salon a few blocks south of the campus, and sometimes they send out little perky, highlighted minions to drum up business. So I wasn't too surprised when the perky redhead bounded up to me and asked if she could ask me a question.

I said yes. Why do I always say yes? I could say no, I guess. It's just that being nice is way more socially acceptable. It's probably Donna Reed's fault. So she was like, how much do you pay for a haircut, and then something miraculous happened.

I lied.

It was like some switch went off in my brain and my brain was like, hey Andrea, she's just trying to get your hard earned money which is actually Paul's hard earned money but still it's the principle of the thing, and then my brain was like just tell her some price that's so low she won't be able to beat it, and so I told her....

Fifteen dollars.

She looked at me, surprised. Wow, she said. It looks....really cute. I grinned at her. Thanks, I said. Then she was like, can I ask you just one more question?

Sure, I said. I mean, I was ready for anything.

How do you feel about facials, manicures, and pedicures? She looked at me all triumphant, like she'd just offered a junkie some crack.

I looked earnestly, directly, into her eyes.

I don't really like touching, I said.

And she sprang back with a look of supreme pity and bounded away.

And I stood there, enjoying a lightness of soul only experienced by those expert in rejecting solicitation.

It was a new world. A beautiful, new world.

don't judge me

Hey, so want to know something that's delicious and that your mom might totally not approve of you eating?

Pretzels dipped in frosting.

I know you might be all, that's disgusting, but really it's so, so good.

Salty and sweet.

Mmmmmmmmm........

I think I shall have me some right this instant.

the mug and the spoon lie in wait

I woke up hungry.

Paul's phone was beeping, which is why I was awake. So I picked up his phone and saw that Jeff from work had called. I figured it must be important for Jeff from work to call so early and so I woke Paul up and then stumbled back into the kitchen for food.

And I mixed myself some instant breakfast which I love because it's like getting to drink chocolate milk for breakfast and you also get vitamins and who doesn't love vitamins, and that's when I noticed something:

A white ceramic mug and a spoon sitting on a place mat. They looked like they were waiting for something, and while of course it is not at all unusual for one of my very own mugs to be hobnobbing with one of my very own spoons on one of my very own place mats, I felt sort of funny, like I was returning to the scene of a crime.

And then I remembered. Vaguely floating around in a fuzzy puddle of memory, there it was, this picture of me waking up in the middle of the night and making my way to the kitchen where I pulled from the refrigerator the mixing bowl of cookie dough and poured myself a glass of 1% milk and ate what I can only assume was a massive quantity of cookie dough before carefully recovering the mixing bowl and returning the milk carton to its home, leaving the mug and spoon behind.

They had waited for me, the only remaining co-conspirator, and I had returned to the scene of the crime, just as they knew I would.

i find myself stumped by a t-shirt

I consider myself to be a reasonably witty person.

You know, more so than some, far less than others. Reasonable. Except for maybe I'm not so witty, because the other day I was totally, completely, utterly and in all ways possible, stumped by a T-shirt.

So I'm riding the subway, see? And I'm about to get off, and this dude is about to get on, and I see his shirt as I pass. It has a picture of a busty lady pushing a baby carriage, and a caption reading Junk in the trunk.

I don't get it.

I ponder this all the way home.

What does it mean?

Does the mom have junk in her trunk? Is this a misogynistic statement about attractive females? But what about the baby carriage? Is the baby the junk in the trunk? Is this a rallying cry for single fathers wishing to skip out on child support and thus ditch the junk in the trunk?

Is he saying he is attracted to women who have given birth? Is he making a statement about post baby bodies? Because if he is I would like to soundly kick his trash and then shove a watermelon up his nostril to see how he likes it. Or does he like the post baby body, in which case I will recant my previous watermelon shoving wishes but still give him a stern lecture about society's objectification of women.

As Paul and I walk home, I ask him. You're a dude, I say. What does it mean? The junk in the trunk phraseology combined with the mom pushing a baby carriage?

Paul doesn't get it, either.

BUT WHAT DOES IT MEAN?????????

I mean, whatever it means, T-shirts are just not the place for those sly, wink-over-your-shoulder nods to some private joke you have with your buddy Wallace. T-shirts are the place for obvious humor. You know, snarky stuff like "I'm busy you're ugly have a nice day", and "Trust me, I'm a doctor". Stuff that kinda makes you want to smack the wearer of the shirt, but at least you know what it means and you don't spend like a whole week trying to figure it out, calling into question your very abilities to recognize wit and asking everyone qualifying as a male because apparently they have a secret club where they come up with T-shirt ideas that make no sense whatsoever.

Not cool, man. Not cool.

Seriously, though. WHAT DOES IT MEAN????

I mean, I've already asked all the guys I know. Maybe I'll go ask the super. Yeah, Plinio might know.

I just don't get it.

my journal is a portal to the outside world

Okay, so guess what I just found.

Go ahead, guess.

Okay, I'll tell you:

I just found, lurking on a closet shelf behind my wedding veil (which I refuse to get rid of because of the completely awesome Halloween costume potential), my old junior high journal.

Uh huh.

Hilarious. Painful. Embarrassing. Melodramatic.

Awesome.

Just in case you didn't believe me when I told you how delightfully geeky I was (and continue to be), here's a little taste.

My friend Meridth gave me the journal at my twelfth birthday party. She wrote my name in fancy calligraphy: Andrea Gale, 11/15/91. Your my bestest friend, your very special to me! Love, Meridth. And she drew a little paw print next to her name.

Nice, right? Yeah, except for it's scratched out. And then I've copied the same wording above the scratched out part, and at the bottom I wrote: I crossed it out when I was mad at Meridth. I'm not anymore. Sorry, Meridth.

So, I guess I must have thought my journal was some sort of portal to the outside world accessible to all those close to me, and that's why I needed to right the cosmic wrong I had committed by scribbling out Meridth's well wishes. Go figure.

This journal also marks my first attempts at free thinking, as evidenced by my first entry: Since this is a diary and not a journal, I will write when I feel like it.

I mean, that's something, right? I didn't even date it. What a rebel. The next few entries also lack dates, like that somehow reinforced the whole "diary and not a journal" idea. Also I'm pretty sure that doesn't make any sense. Whatever. I was twelve.

The last entry on the page pretty much sums up my adolescence:

I am feeling better today. I have made up my mind to be very (as) glamorous as possible. I plan to grow my hair long- real long. I found a cute hairstyle today.

And that, too, is scribbled out. I have this vague memory of reading that paragraph and being horrified. I even have a vague memory of scribbling it out.

I love it.

I love that at the age of twelve, when I weighed maybe eighty five pounds soaking wet and had braces and had to wear neck gear, that I had this unconquerable desire for glamour. It just seems really Don Quixote of me. And I love that at some point, I re-read that entry and was horrified.

I mean, it is pretty awful. Right there, in black and white, in the cursive writing that I used in junior high and only in junior high, the uncensored longing of my past, and the hilariously unsuccessful attempt to erase it.

It's like seeing two versions of myself at once. And then, I turn the page:

I am going to write a sequel to "The Music Man". Nobody must know about it, and Stephanie must promise to keep my secret. It may take years, but i will finish it. It is to be called "Marian". I feel good and warm and happy. O, it might have been!

Yep.

Whatever. I was twelve.

in which i reject ed asner

Last night I had a dream that Ed Asner asked me out on a date.

I said no.

He's not really my type.

paul boerem issues a formal statement

I, Paul David Boerem, would like to issue a formal apology to any babies who may have read the previous post.

I may have forgotten my own past obsession with plastic honking spinney things. Also as Andrea and I have no parenting experience whatsoever, it is highly likely that when we discover that the plastic honking spinney things are what keep our children from screaming at abnormally high decibels, we will have our own collection of said items.

Also I don't think babies are Neanderthals. Not that there's anything wrong with Neanderthals.

Thank you.

i catch a glimpse of my elitist future

Paul: When we have kids, we won't have any loud toys.

Andrea: (dubiously) Uh.....sure.

Paul: I mean, come on!! That plastic spinney thing in the nursery that makes the honking noise? No. Way. No way.

Andrea: Except for remember when we didn't have kids yet and had no idea what that would be like?

Paul: Well, but we're the grown ups! We get to say what is and is not okay, right?

Andrea: But what if someone gives us a spinney thing that makes a honking noise?

Paul: Then we give it to someone in need. Like, "Here, here is a toy for your Neanderthal baby to bang his fists upon."

Andrea: Except for kids bang their fists instinctively no matter what, right?

Paul: Our kids will bang their fists on wood blocks, not like the other babies, banging their prehistoric heads on plastic honking spinney things.

Andrea: Wow. We're elitist when we're parents.

sometimes memories bubble up

It is Sunday night, and I am staring at a red and white card imprinted with my future, or, to be more specific, my future for Monday, June 29th 2009:

Jury duty.

Blechy. Double blechy with a side of extra blechy.

I meant to call ahead of time and ask for a postponement. That was kind of already a long shot since I'm on summer break and have plenty of time to fulfill my civic duty, but I DON'T WANNA, so I was going to tell them it was my ladies time and then start crying. Also I thought I might tell them I have monkey pox or the Ebola virus.

This all seems like a completely brilliant plan until Sunday night when I realize I have written the date wrong, and I am expected to present myself, Ebola virus or not, at 100 Centre Street at 8:45 a.m. Monday.

But I don't wanna, I whine to Paul. I would like to shirk my civic duty. Paul isn't terribly sympathetic. He loves fulfilling his civic duty. He also really likes the word "duty", but that's a different post altogether.

So, on Monday morning I pack my book, an umbrella, five packs of fruit snacks, and head out. This will be fun, I tell myself. You can people watch. You love to people watch. There, I've got me. I do love to people watch. I also tell myself that I will maybe enjoy fulfilling my civic duty, even though really I think it will be like last semester when I thought taking Political Science would make me like politics but really it just confirmed how completely a-political I actually am.

First, I go to a big building with columns in a desperate attempt to convince someone that I am unable to serve on account of it being my ladies time. I really think I have it in the bag because all the interviewers are dudes, until a lady who looks like a cross between Hilary Clinton and Margaret Thatcher stands up and calls my name.

Dang. She's not sympathetic at all. Also it seems like she thinks my excuse is lame, which it is.

So, 9:30 a.m. Monday morning finds me sitting in a huge room with one hundred and fifty fellow New Yorkers, most attempting to pretend the other one hundred forty nine people aren't actually there, except for the one guy wearing loafers with no socks who talks to everyone in his immediate vicinity.

A most unhappy lady wearing exercise attire enters late, and attempts to convince the clerk she doesn't belong there. She has a tattoo of a spider on her shoulder blade. A fellow slumped over in his chair is snoring.

The jury clerk pulls out an ancient olive green spinney thing from which he pulls names. Mine is the second name called.

It's been a long time since I've been in a courtroom. Six years, I think. I don't like it. I don't like how white and bare the walls are. I look at my jury questionaire. Have you been the victim of a crime? Have you testified at a trial?

Yes, I check. And yes.

I mark the boxes without emotion. It's a fact, like I have green eyes and I like Easy Cheez. It was a long time ago, a different me ago.

The judge calls out our names one by one and we take our seats in the jury box. Angry spider tattoo lady is in my group. Every few minutes she shakes her head, and mutters under her breath. Elliot looks remarkably like a garden gnome, and Lucy, much to my delight, looks exactly like Lucy from Peanuts with like fifty years tacked on. Jennifer sits in front of me. She has a southern accent and is wearing a frilly hot pink shirt.

The defendant sits next to his attorney. He stares straight ahead, sometimes looking down. It's a drunk driving case. He looks young. His suit looks too big, or he looks too skinny. I can't decide which.

It's the prosecutor's turn, and she's picking on different jurors, trying to weed out the undesirables. Elliot has two kids, eighteen and twenty. He doesn't think that would interfere with his impartiality. Lucy ran a victims' advocate center for twenty years. Jennifer attends bible study. One time her boyfriend got pulled over, but it was a really twisty road and also it was raining. She's glad the officer was making sure they were being safe. Now she just has a social drink every now and then. John got pulled over at checkpoint one time, but he hadn't had anything to drink and he felt like the machine was malfunctioning.

Ms. Boerem?

Yes.

You have been the victim of a crime?

Yes.

Can you tell us about that? You can approach the bench, if you prefer.

Uh, yeah. I'll approach the bench.

So, I approach the bench. It's a fine looking bench. This business of approaching the bench is so delightful that the prosecutor comes too, along with the defense attorney. He has a mustache that's been sort of twisted at the ends, like a villain in an old movie, or someone in a barber shop quartet.

It doesn't take long for me to tell my story. I've told it before, lots of times. Usually it's a really positive thing, you know? Like I'm telling someone how I'm a better person now, or how amazing our capacity for healing is. Now, all of a sudden I am flooded with memories I haven't thought of in years and it feels like cold water, like re-opening a wound long since closed over.

Would you be able to disregard your opinions?

I attempt to ignore the twenty nine people sitting to my right. This is the first time in almost ten years that I have had to answer this question. I look at the judge, at the attorneys.

I don't know.

I mean, I wish I could tell you differently, it's just that....

I don't know.

And all of a sudden I am presented with a me who is not impartial. I don't know how I feel about this. I mean, I thought I was impartial. When Paul shaved that handlebar mustache last winter and I actually didn't like it I totally reserved judgement, and while I am a shameless Harry Potter freak, I completely respect the anti-Potter camp. That's pretty impartial.

If I instruct you that the law requires you to disregard your personal preferences and opinions and listen objectively to the arguments of both sides, would your answer change?

No, I say.

I feel for a moment like I am the one on trial. Like judgement is being passed. Maybe it is. That's okay. Maybe it's not. That's okay, too.

I take my seat. The prosecutor finishes, and after lunch, the defense attorney gets his turn. Know what? I don't like the way he uses words. As a matter of fact, I'm not so much a fan of the prosecutor's treatment of the English language, either. It's like words exist only for manipulation, only to extract the desired answer.

One time the defense attorney asks a question and the judge yells out WATCH IT, YOU'RE ON DANGEROUS GROUND, and it's just like Law and Order and it's kind of exciting except for Mustache Guy just re-words the same question and now I want to put him on trial.

It's upsetting. The blank walled room, the bored looking judge, the over-eager lawyers. It's upsetting but then...

I don't know. It's like the old memories bubble up, but then they recede, healed. So quickly. That me is gone, now. It feels like when I take pain medicine, like something being kept at bay.

I am not broken.

It's not like it was erased, because it wasn't, it couldn't be. It's been replaced. Something else lives there, now. A distant relative. Something joyful and wizened like fingers wrinkled from bathwater: visible marks that fade, clean and warm at the same time.

When they announce the selected jurors, my name is not called.

Neither is Angry Spider Tattoo Lady's. I guess she's not impartial, either.

I could have told you that.

i fly through the air with the greatest of ease

I'm seriously considering joining the circus.

Now, you might be wondering why. I get that. I have at no point in my life expressed any interest in exotic animals, body distortion or face paint, run of the mill makeup excepted. Truth be told, I'm as surprised as you. For reals.

It's just that I took a trapeze class with my good friend Gail, and I'm sort of in love. See, I've never been good at sports. Ever. Sports and I have endured a strained relationship for quite a long time, honestly.

You know, I'd try to pay attention, but obviously I wasn't, and sports would try to be less cryptic and tone down the body painting, but that was sort of denying who sports was, so we were at an impasse.

Until Monday, when my life changed because of trapeze class. I was like, hey, Sports! You never told me about trapeze class! This is just swinging!

And just like that, we've reconciled.

Also maybe I won't join the circus, because Paul is really scared of clowns.

So, here are some pics of my adventure. If you'd like to read about my past history with sports, I am a guest blogger for my awesome friend May today. May is maybe one of my favorite writers ever. Check her out. She will rock your world with her insight. You'll laugh. You'll cry. You'll go home happy. Get to know her, and find out why I love her so much.

may i have your attention, please

Ahem.

I, Andrea Gale Boerem, have been accepted into the General Studies Program at Columbia University.

Booyeah.

i attempt to define butplarg

I just posted a comment on one of my posts and the word verification was....

Butplarg.

How fantastic is that? I know. Pretty fantastic.

I mean, that could be a noun, as in I am wishing to purchase a butplarg, or the butplarg got a 150% on her chemistry exam, or it could be.....

Okay, maybe just a noun. Still, I love it. I love it because it sounds like an insult, or like an item one might purchase along with some fiber capsules, but what if it wasn't? What if it was like a term of endearment? You'd probably have to clear it with all your friends before use though, because the last thing you want is to get in a big fight with your best friend from kindergarten because you were trying to make her feel all good about being so kind or good at math or whatever, and then she got all offended because she didn't know what butplarg really meant.

I'm just saying.

no place like home (it was awesome)

So, uh, hey.

Back again.

It turns out I have a real life. I kinda forgot for two weeks. Vacation sort of brainwashes me, you know? I had started to think all meals involved In n Out or Cafe Rio and that my major responsibility in life was to have lots of fun and say things like OH MY GOSH IT'S BEEN SUCH A LONG TIME.

I didn't forget about Paul, though. I think we both count that as a blessing.

I shall now attempt to cram a two week vacay into a solitary blog post. Here I go.

So, I got on a plane. The plane went to California. My family is in California. In n Out is in California. My friend Gail who knew me when I had to wear neck gear is in California. My friend Tamara who lets me eat cookies and ice cream for breakfast when I spend the night at her house is in California. I love California.

There was this time during my California part of my vacation when I went to get clam chowder in Ventura with my mom and dad, and the clam chowder was so good, and then a real seagull landed right on our table. It was awesome.

Also my little brother John had an awards ceremony for school because he got all A's and also is really good in History, and mom wanted him to wear a shirt and tie, except for John didn't want to, but he wore one anyway because mom gave him the Guilt Trip of Never Ending Pain and Anguish, which is pretty much impossible to withstand. It was awesome.

Then know what? John had a piano recital and it was at his teacher's house, and her house had flowers outside and I thought, that's nice. I like flowers outside a house. John's piano teacher was so nice and friendly like that I even thought I might like to take piano lessons, and that's saying a lot, because using my two hands at the same time kind of freaks me out. After the kids were done playing I had to hug them all (or as many as I could get near before they ran away) because they were all cute as a button, and then everyone made ice cream sundaes. It was awesome.

So, after like a week I got on another plane. This one went to Utah. My sister Miriam is in Utah, being a grown up. I went to see her being a grown up. Also my friend Nicole is in Utah. Nicole can make just about anything if you give her a glue gun and a sewing machine, all while being the Nicest Person Ever and looking like a supermodel. I went to see her because I wanted to know if she could show me how to make a replica of Rodin's The Gates of Hell. It turns out you need more than a glue gun and sewing machine, though.

Want to know something that is awesome about Utah? They totally got rid of the whole humidity thing. How did they do it? Was it the government? Because I would totally vote for someone who could get rid of humidity. Although as a side note I recognize that it is perhaps necessary sometimes.

While I was enjoying the humidity free weather and super friendly customer service, I spent the night with my sister Miriam. She's all grown up and stuff. It's so weird, I mean she's got an apartment with roommates and there's couches in the living room and she's got her own food shelf and there's milk in the refrigerator with her name on it. I went into the bathroom to take a shower and pulled the shower curtain back and saw three little scrubby poufs in assorted colors hanging from the spout and it was like a whole story about the apartment's inhabitants, right there. It was awesome.

Miriam went on a date with a kid named Ian. Except he pronounces it eye-an. I've just been calling him Fred. That might be a problem if things heat up for the two of them. But I digress.

Did you know that Utah has castles? It totally does, and my friend Nicole lives in one. Her castle has a porch swing and a sandbox and a tree-house in the back and it has it's very own guest bedroom with a guest bathroom and the shower has these little pebbles on the floor, but the pebbles are like a part of the floor and they feel all smooth and good, not like when you're walking to your car from the beach and you're like, ow, I hate walking on pebbles. It's not like that at all. It's awesome.

Nicole has four kids. I love them. One of them is my boyfriend. His name is Hyrum and he's two and he has a toy dinosaur named Sarah and he's really good at running back and forth really fast and he likes to eat the same stuff as I do, so we have a lot in common. It couldn't last, mostly because he's two and I'm already married and also I was only staying there for like a week. It's just as well. I think he likes Sarah better than me, anyway.

Nicole and I did crafty stuff. I might not have told you this about me, but I really stink at crafts. Everything I make looks like a five year old made it. Somehow it's cute when it's a five year old, but when you're like almost thirty? Not so cute. So when Nicole was like hey, want to do crafty stuff, I was all ready to reach for my paper bag, but then she was like no, it's going to be really, really easy.

And it was. So easy, in fact, that I am all ready to buy my very own glue gun and go to town. I think Paul's T shirts could use a little embellishment. I made cute stuff. I. MADE. CUTE. STUFF. ME. I DID. Sorry, it still hasn't sunk in.

After I was all done making the crafty stuff and flirting with Hyrum and admiring the guest bathroom, it was time for me to go home. Because two weeks away from my best guy is a really, really long time. Also I was running out of underwear. Also I wanted to give Paul the amazing gifts I bought for him. Dude, you would not believe the treasure trove I brought him. I got him this visor with built in hair that was only five bucks at Walgreen's and is completely disgusting, and I also got him this squeaky fish with huge lips, and putty that makes toot noises. Awesome, right? I know.

So, I got on a plane. This plane went to New York. New York has Paul, and I really, really like Paul. When I got home Paul was awake even though it was like six in the morning on a Saturday. He had done all the dishes, even the silverware, plus he got me flowers.

It was awesome.

dear new york

Please take good care of Paul while I am gone
For two whole weeks
If you could maybe tone the whole humidity thing down
I think he would like that
Also the thunderstorms
He only has the one umbrella
That he fixed, not very well
With superglue
Just one more thing
If you wouldn't mind relocating
To California
Just for the two weeks so he can come with me
That would be neat
Not to mention newsworthy
It's just that I will miss him while I am gone
For two whole weeks

not so fast

I woke up talking.

It's such a weird thing, when your dreams seem a part of reality even when you're still dreaming and then you wake up and you can't quite figure out if you're actually awake and really talking to Paul or if it's still the dream part.

In my dream, Carl and Becca had tickets to Ice Capades, and Paul and I were going with.

Ice Capades.

Awesome.

When I woke up, I was explaining the very important details of our impending activity as Paul listened with a look of amused enjoyment.

Ice Capades, huh? He was totally laughing at me.

Whatever, I said. At least my dream people are real.

Booyeah.

paul sees dream people

Andrea: Paul, do you remember what you said last night, when I was trying to get you to go to bed? Dude, you were funny.

Paul: Well, I'm a funny guy.

Andrea: I know.

Paul: I'm just an exceptionally funny guy, is the thing. What'd I say?

Andrea: Well, I told you we had to go to bed, and you said "mmmuhuhmmm", so then I started saying "Paaaauuul? Paaauuul?" which usually really bugs you but not last night, so then I kinda pulled you up a little bit and then you said that you had to see about the people in your dream.

Paul: I had people in my dream?

Andrea: Apparently. And you had to see about them. Then when I asked you if you were perhaps having a Nyquil night, you said "No. It makes perfect sense."

Paul: Well, sure. I had to see about the people.

Andrea: Who were these people?

Paul: Man, I wish I could remember.

the forgotten art of childhood

Yesterday, I went to school to learn how to be a kid.

I used to know. I used to really, really know, but I had forgotten a little bit. I used to know the feeling of grass tickling my back, and the way the world looked from upside down, but I had forgotten, a little bit.

So I went to school, to learn how to be a kid.

I didn't have to sign up or anything. That's the good thing about kid school. You can go anytime. The school I went to was outside, in a garden. That's another good thing about kid school. And my teachers were old, so very old....

I mean, Beanie is two years old. I don't even know what that means, to be two years old. Jaz, she's probably seven, or is she eight? Then there's Monster Face, and I think he's maybe four. See what I mean? Old.

There are classes you take in kid school. I took a class from Beanie in Running Super Fast Back and Forth. That's a good class. Important to know, if you ask me. You might think it only involves running, but there's quite a bit more to it. I mean, sure, you can just run back and forth in straight lines, but you can also run in zig- zag lines, and you can even hold your arms out like an airplane at the same time.

Jaz instructed the class on The Proper Technique for Making Rock Cakes, which I found most informative. First, you should make sure that the rocks you are using are really tiny, and then you just scoop up handfuls and make little piles in the shape of cakes. See? Rock Cakes. They're really just meant to be decorative, though. Monster Face told me that.

A thing you should watch out for when you're making Rock Cakes, is banana bugs. Jaz taught me about them. They have eight legs and they can be yellow, pink, green, or brown, and they have stingers with venom, so you have to be really careful. If you can't always see them, it doesn't mean they aren't there, because they can also turn invisible. Monster Face whispered in my ear a secret, that if they sting you, you can die. Sometimes kid school is scary.

Rocks can be used for lots of things, not just making cakes. Monster Face showed me how you can pile them on your sister's back like she's a pick-up truck. You can also put rocks in your underwear, but that's maybe not the best idea.

I took a class in Rolling Around in the Grass. Beanie taught that one. That was a hard one. The grass was just so tickle-y, for one thing. I had to get used to that. You have to lie all the way down, too. You can't just pretend to lie down. Beanie made sure I learned that, quick. So you lie down all the way, on your back. Then you roll over. All the way over, so you end up on your tummy. You can't just roll from side to side. Beanie made sure I learned that, too.

Do you know how to turn into a Monster, or a Dinosaur? Well, Monster Face knows how. He taught me. He taught Beanie, too. That's another good thing about kid school. The teachers want to learn new stuff, too. To turn into a Monster you need to make your fingers like claws, and then you pull back your lips and show your teeth and you roar, but that doesn't mean that you're not a nice Monster or Dinosaur. That's just what Monsters and Dinosaurs do.

Sometimes at kid school you find things like teensy pieces of broken glass, and when you do, you should put them someplace where no one will get hurt by them, like maybe in the bushes behind the bench, because nobody can get back there. Jaz showed me.

I had been wanting to learn more about General Silliness, and Beanie was kind enough to instruct me. There really are lots of ways, but a good way to just generally be silly when you're sitting down is to rock back and forth really fast. Or, you can hold your legs out straight in front of you, and move them up and down nice and quick like. You can also shake your hands all around. That's a pretty silly thing to do. If you want to get really crazy, and I do mean really crazy, you can do all those things at once, but I'm warning you.....it's really, really silly.

When kid school was over, I said good bye to Beanie, and Jaz, and Monster Face. I stepped out of the garden, into my grown up world. I took the leaves and flowers out of my hair, that Monster Face had given me to help me look even more beautiful. I carried my grown up purse and I wore my fashionably over sized grown up sunglasses.

When I got home, I sang a little song to myself on the elevator. I thought that was kind of silly. My grown up clothes were dirty, but inside I felt clean, and new. I took off my shoes. I wiggled my toes.

Then, I took a nap.

Everyone needs a nap, sometimes.

denial tastes delicious in mint

It all started with finals. I just needed a little pick me up, I told myself. Just a little reward for the bajillion hours of studying I was about to embark upon.

So, I bought a half gallon of Turkey Hill Limited Edition Junior Mint ice cream. Delicious. Minty ice cream with a fudgy swirl and mini Junior Mint candies mixed in, which provided a lovely chewy texture I found entirely delightful. It lasted about twelve hours.

A day later I burrowed among the ice cream cartons at Associated grocery store searching for my next fix. I bought the last carton and marched home triumphant, my mouth watering in anticipation.

Well, a half gallon of ice cream will only get you so far. In my experience it's good for about one to two study sessions and one final exam, max. Max. So, over the course of the week I purchased about eight cartons of ice cream, each in a varying flavor and texture combination but all involving mint which is my....obsession? Is obsession too strong a word? Love seems too weak, and habit has kind of a negative association and there is nothing negative about my love for ice cream.....I think you get the idea.

I can't stop.

On Wednesday night as I polished off the last of a half gallon of Edy's Limited Edition Girl Scout Thin Mint ice cream I thought, I oughta stop. I mean, my last test was on Thursday. Maybe it was time to scale back a bit. Maybe consume something with the word's "whole" and "wheat" in the ingredients.

The thing is, on Thursday night I just felt so free, so joyful, upon the completion of my last test, I kinda felt like a celebration was in order. I'll just stop by Associated, I thought. Just see what they've got.

Skinny Minty.

Yep. Minty ice cream with Grasshopper Cookies and a chocolate cookie swirl.

I'll just get a half gallon, I said to myself. A half gallon is nothing. I eat a half gallon for breakfast.

It was delectable. Smooth and velvety, the chocolate cookie swirl provided a slightly grainy and crunchy texture that not only satisfied my craving but filled me with a general sense of goodwill towards all mankind.

I ate half the carton.

When I woke up in the morning and stumbled to the freezer for just a couple of spoonfuls (hair of the dog that bit me, you know?) I realized....

Geez. This is almost gone.

I need more. MORE! MORE ICE CREAM!!

I'll go back to the store. I'll go this afternoon.....after I'm done working on my Columbia application! Yeah, like a reward! That's good. They say you need a reward when you're working on something stressful!

Or I could just go now. Yeah, now is good.

So, I threw some clothes on, made sure nothing was growing out of my teeth or stuck to my hair and bolted to the store.

I catapulted myself down the aisle. No one in front of the ice cream, that's good. I scanned the flavors, not seeing it, not seeing it....

EUREKA!!! THREE CARTONS!!! THREE BEAUTIFUL CARTONS OF MINTY GOODNESS!!! MINE, ALL MINE!!!!!!!!! MWAH HA HA HA!!!!!

That last part was all in my head, just to clarify.

I piled the cartons on the checkout desk. THIS IS THE BEST ICE CREAM FLAVOR EVER, I shouted at the checkout girl, and inside my brain the evil ice cream queen whispered but you'll never know that because I just bought the last cartons!!!! MWAH HA HA HA!!!

I really should stop evil laughing in my head so much.

Anyway, walking out of the store with my precious cargo I just felt so happy, so filled with God's love and so happy that God had made someone who had made ice cream that I thought....I could share. YEAH, SHARE THE ICE CREAM!!!!!!!!

So I showed up on my friend's doorstep, greasy and unshowered and beaming like an idiot.

ICE CREAM!! I yelled, holding up my bag of treasure.

She was probably worried that I would harm myself if she didn't let me in, and graciously allowed me to enter. We proceeded to devour some icy creamy deliciousness.

She has a daughter, an adorable pinchable eighteen month old, and being the wise mother she is, has already begun schooling her young ward in the multiple benefits of ice cream consumption, so the little one joined us in our revelry.

It turns out that in comparison to an eighteen month old, I am a mere amateur when it comes to ice cream devouring. I mean, she just stuck her spoon into her mom's bowl when she wasn't looking! How bold, how sneaky, how brilliant!

And when I asked her how she liked her ice cream and she stuck her spoon into my bowl, she was of course shrewdly taking my inquiry as an invitation! Of course, it's all semantics! Oh, to be eighteen months old again!

How about when I asked her if she was all done and she proceeded to place the bowl directly over her face? What thriftiness! What recognization of the problem of wastefulness so rampant in our society!

Clearly I am but a fledgling in my quest to understand the entirety of psycological, spiritual and physiological benefits an ice cream rich diet can provide.

I think I'll do some more research right now.

Edgar Allen Poe's Secret Theory For Reality Show Success

So, you know Edgar Allen Poe? Famous American author, sort of crazy dude, wrote "The Raven"?

Well, we read some of his stuff in my American Literature class, and after the flashbacks from junior high speech competitions stopped and I was able to stop saying "nevermore" over and over again, I thought, huh.

So Poe was really big on technique. I had no idea. He actually wrote an essay on literary composition. He had this secret formula for writing great American literature which of course isn't a secret anymore because he totally published it.

Well, I have a theory of my own:

If Poe was alive today and trying to mastermind a formula for winning the 2009 Eurovision Competition, it would probably look something like this:

First, you should be good looking. Really, really good looking.

Second, you should probably have a violin. If you can dance around while you're playing it, so much the better, but a fiddle should be involved.

Third, make sure you've got some strapping lads wearing suspenders. Have them do gymnastics behind you while you're singing. And push ups... in circles!! Yeah, have them do push ups in circles around you!! Perfect.

Fourth, get a couple of nice looking dames. Stick them in some flow-y pink dresses. Have them sing back up. They can dance a little bit, that's cool. Just make sure they're pretty.

Let's see, anything else? Handsome, got that, violin, push ups, what am I missing?

Oh. Fireworks.

Well, there you go. The complete formula for successfully winning a reality show competition. It totally worked for this dude.

life imitates life (the answer is not mushrooms)

Paul and I got new callings at church.

My church doesn't have a paid clergy, so everyone kinda takes turns at the various responsibilities. Every once in a while you get a call from the bishop or one of his counselors, and then you hyperventilate while waiting to find out what your new calling is going to be.

Nursery. We got called to be in the Nursery.

Can you say.......

AWESOME???!!!!

Greg looked kinda nervous when he told us. Nursery isn't something everyone gets super jazzed about, you know? I guess it's just that being accosted by eighteen month old kids for two hours every week doesn't appeal to everyone. Go figure.

I think he started to relax when he saw us high-fiving and pulling out our marshmallow gun. I mean, come on! Snacks? Toys? Singing time? Playdough? We get to party for two hours with people who share basically all my eating habits, except for some of them will eat raisins, and I won't.

So, it's been fun. Really, really fun. Here's a sampling of a typical Sunday:

Cute kid A takes a toy from Cute kid B.

Cute kid A: MINE!!!!!!

Cute kid B: MINE!!!!!!

Me: Hey, uh, look at this.....weird plastic spinny thing!! Yeah, check this out! You, uh, push this plastic pushy thing and the spinny thing spins!!!!! Wow, don't you love a plastic spinny and pushy thing? I know I sure do.

Cute kid B: Oooooh. (starts pushing the plastic pushy thing)

Another sampling:

Cute kid A: I blow bubbles?

Me: Oh, uh....no, sweetie. Just grown-ups blow the bubbles.

Cute kid A: I blow bubbles?

Me: Right, so it's actually just grown-ups. I personally think it's ridiculous, you know? I mean, so you're eighteen months. Who cares? Do they know how early you were able to feed yourself pureed sweet potato? I'm just a nursery leader. Powerless, you know? I mean, if it were up to me you could blow bubbles all day. What's it to me? It's Roxy over there, she's the one with the power. So hey, you want to run around in circles really fast?

Well, you get the general idea. I may have embellished slightly for dramatic effect.

I really do love it. I love watching their little brains working, trying to figure out this complex grown-up world where snack time requires you to sit in one place and it is generally frowned upon to dump water all over your snack filled coffee filter.

It's good for me to practice being patient, too, you know? I find it helps me in other segments of my life. Take the other day:

I go to the library to study with some people from my Spanish class. Now, I am normally a solitary studier, but on Monday when Shanika asks if I will join her I think....study group. I could do that. That's a college thing, right? Yeah, study group.....cool.

So we agree to meet at 1:00. I mistakenly think that means 1:00. It actually means 1:30 in college time. My bad. I ask Shanika and Dude Whose Name I Have Forgotten what they'd like to study.

Vocabulary, they say.

Okey dokey. I'll quiz you guys first, I say.

Me: Leche

Shanika: Mushrooms?

Me: Carne

Dude: Oh......uh.......

Shanika: Mushrooms?

Me: Lechuga

Dude: Uh......um.......

Shanika: Mushrooms?

You get the idea. I didn't have the heart to tell Shanika that "mushrooms" isn't even in the book. She seemed so excited about them.

nightmare

I just had a dream that Paul and I had a child.

That part wasn't the nightmare. That part was actually really nice.

We named him Conan. Pretty bad, right?

It gets worse.

We wanted him to be associated with smarts and not with loincloths and California's governor so we decided to call him....

Conan the Librarian.

AAAAAUUUUUGHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!

lies i told my mother

I am like three years old, and I am hiding in my closet. Naked.

Are you in there, Andrea?

Uh, yeah. I'm in here.

Are you dressed?

Uh, yeah. I'm dressed.

There it is. The first lie I remember telling my mom. At the time, I feel pretty justified in telling it, because I just love changing my clothes, and there are just too many options to select only one outfit. How could I anticipate, how could I possibly know mom would give me a three time limit on clothes changing for the day? I'm four! It's what I do! Besides telling myself stories in the bathroom, changing clothes is the primary joy of my life!

So, I lie to my mom. She opens the closet door.

Oops. Didn't so much think that far.

Then I am seven, and it is the night before my birthday. There is an unwrapped birthday present under the front seat of mom's car, and I sneak out after dinner for a peek. It's a box set of Little House on the Prairie books. A tiny thrill courses through my body when I see them.

I walk back inside.

Where were you?

I freeze. Covert ops have never been my strong suit.

Uh....there was a big star.

Let's go see it, shall we?

Geez.

I am eight years old now, and sitting at the dinner table, but dinner has been over for a long, long time. I stare at my bean burrito. I attempt to vaporize it using the power of my mind. Unsuccessful, I review the blueprint of the kitchen, looking for somewhere, anywhere, to dispose of it.

Andrea, if you don't eat the burrito tonight, you have to eat it for breakfast tomorrow.

So really, all I hear is blah blah blah don't eat the burrito tonight which is exactly what I am going for, so I congratulate myself for being on the same page as mom, and go to the bathroom to tell myself a story about this awesome fluffy pink satin bedspread I saw in the Sears catalog, and then I go to bed.

When I wake up, a dim memory steals across the back corner of my mind and I realize...... I have to eat a bean burrito for breakfast.

Siiiiiick! Oh holy awful disgustingness!! What in the name of all that is pure was I thinking?

I sit at the breakfast table, alone. I stare at the cold burrito. The cold bean burrito. Overnight it has, I believe, become evil. The burrito is definitely giving off a cold, evil, bean-y vibe. As I ponder my predicament, the solution becomes immediately and beautifully clear:

I dump the burrito in the garbage.

A sensation of supreme relief washes over me upon the disappearance of the bean filled villain, and later when mom asks me if I ate my burrito, I say yes, but that I didn't like it. I think that makes my story nice and realistic like.

Only this time mom doesn't know that I lied. I get away with it. I carry the burrito guilt around with me for a while. For years, actually. It's always there, in the back of my mind. In throwing away my burrito and lying to my mom, I have knowingly sinned. And I really, really don't want to be having my card scanned at judgement day and have an outstanding un-repented burrito sin on my record.

So, I tell her.

She's not mad. I don't get in trouble. She laughs. This might have something to do with the fact that I am at the time like twenty seven, and living three thousand miles away, and there's only so much discipline that can be employed at that point, but I still appreciate her forgiving manner.

That was really nice, I think.

Why didn't I try that sooner?

Mom, I am naked in the closet because I wanted to change my clothes six times not the three like you said, and I peeked at my birthday present and threw away the burrito that I was supposed to eat for breakfast because I wouldn't eat it for dinner.

Huh. It kinda sounds worse when you put them all together like that.

But really, why? Mom always knows.

I am like fifteen, and smack in the middle of my angst ridden angry at parental authority figures period. I am lying in bed late at night. I am crying. I am afraid, I am sad. I am lonely and my body is riddled with unfamiliar hormones and I want my mom. I really, really want my mom.

She opens my door. I pretend I am asleep. I don't want to be asleep. I want her to sit down on my bed, and hold me close and tell me the nice things moms say, like those pimples don't look like volcanoes at all, and you can still be a successful adult even though you don't have one of those kilts with the huge safety pins like Tiffany in your English class has.

But I pretend I am asleep. I pretend I don't need her. I lie to my mom.

She still knows. Mom always knows. She walks in. She kisses me on the forehead. She whispers she loves me.

Hey, Mom?

Sorry I lied.

to paul on our anniversary

Dear Paul,

It's been a good eight years. I would even go so far as to say it's been a really, really good eight years. Good just isn't a good enough word, though. And the words that seem right also seem really, really....gooey.

Yesterday I came home from school and you didn't open the door right away. Sometimes that can be a sign that some illegal dealings are afoot (if you watch a lot of Lifetime television for women), but in this case it was just because you were putting the finishing touches on the Cinco De Mayo themed anniversary decorations you were putting up in our apartment.

They're pretty great decorations, too. I especially love the giant guitar holding mariachi guys who are now flanking the pictures on our big wall, and who look strangely like our friend Doug. I love that you stood in a party store and knew that I would love giant mariachi guitar guys who look like our friend Doug.

I don't know how to say all the things I am thinking. I don't know how to put eight years, eight years that have moved and lifted and challenged and blessed into a paragraph. I think when people do it usually ends up in a card that plays music when you push a button, and I'm just not sure that's what I'm going for here.

Maybe it is, though. I mean, if you can't say gooey words and throw pink marshmallow hearts around and stuff on an anniversary, then when can you?

So, I'm just going to go for broke here. I'm just going to lay my gooey cards out on the table. I think you're awesome. More than that. I think you're awesome times like fifty. I think you are sweet and silly and unexpected in the best possible way and the only person I ever want to throw pink marshmallow hearts at.

Also remember last night when I made you watch Spice World because I just wanted to see if it really was the worst movie ever made (and it was) and you only asked twice if we had to keep watching? Well, I just think that was really decent of you.

It's been a good eight years.

i travel back in time sixty years

Andrea: Hey Paul, would you go downstairs and get the laundry?

Paul: What? No! I'm tired!

Andrea: Me too. So hey, could you go get it?

Paul: But you started the laundry. Shouldn't you finish it?

Andrea: Hey, if you get it, I'll fold it. Collaborative effort. Good for marriage.

Paul: Are you serious? I just worked for thirteen hours! I saved lives! I SAVED LIVES FOR THIRTEEN HOURS! I SAVED LIVES FOR THIRTEEN HOURS SO YOU COULD STAY HOME AND DO LAUNDRY!

Andrea: Let's talk about the last half of that statement. After you get the laundry.

Kittens, inspired by Kittens!

Okay, so I would like to issue an urgent plea to all within the sound of my voice. Or who are posessed of psychic powers and know what I'm thinking just automatically. Or who happen to reading my blog right now. Please, PLEASE watch this. Watch this and then feed your kids a bunch of sugar and see if you can get them to do the same thing. Because that is TOTALLY what I would do if I had a kid. Hey, maybe I'll just feed MYSELF a lot of sugar and see if I do the same thing.

poor crazy dude

So, I'm walking to school today when I see this dude standing sort of close to the curb. He's gesturing to no one in particular, and talking in this kind of high sing-song-y voice, and as I watch him I think,

Awww. Poor crazy dude.

He doesn't look like your average crazy dude. He's wearing skinny jeans, for pete's sake. I don't know what the correlation is with skinny jeans and mental health, but there you go.

As I pity the poor crazy dude and think about how sad it is that no one is actually talking back to him, the crowd ahead of me parts, and I see:

His young daughter.

As I walk past I think how funny, that schizophrenia and attempting to parent a child present in such similar manners.

Poor crazy dude.

melodramatic me

4/14/92, 8:08pm

"Today was awfully sleepy. The old ache is back. I feel kind of empty. What hurts the most, though, is feeling so lonely and not being able to tell anyone. I keep thinking that somewhere there's a friend that I can really talk to . The sky is unhappy, because I am. I can tell. When I am happy the sky is violet, or a deep blue. Tonight, it is a sad blue. I do have friends that nobody knows about. The moon is my friend, and one star that is always above my window. That sounds horribly childish, but it is true."

Geez.

Someone really should have limited my L.M. Montgomery intake.

****Addendum: I was thirteen when I wrote this, so don't worry. While I do have very positive feelings regarding the moon, stars and sky, I no longer consider them to be close personal friends. I feel more than slightly embarrassed that apparently at one time, I did.****

i'm late for my PETA meeting

So, it's been approximately a million years since my last post. Apparently when I get stressed typing is impossible, what with all the curling up in the fetal position and thumb sucking and all.

Well, after some lengthy pep talks from Paul, my mom, and my good friends Ben and Jerry, I have crawled out from under the table, pried my shriveled thumb from my mouth, consumed several pounds of sugar, and, I am pleased to say, feel much better. A month plus of sugar consumption and thumb sucking will do that for you.

So, uh, yeah....

Here I am.

Let's see, what has happened in a month? Well, my brother Walt got married, which came as a huge shock since I thought he was still nine (turns out he's quite a bit older), and I had spring break, during which I watched a lot of Gilmore Girls, shouted "SPRING BREAK!!!" quite loudly at random and talked a lot about running around in a string bikini while holding a red plastic cup filled with root beer because I've heard that's what the kids do during spring break nowadays. Well, maybe not the root beer part.

It was a good week and a half. I ate like a five year old and stayed up until two in the morning a couple of times and once I even forgot to brush my teeth.

It was wild.

Now, I'm back at school and facing something most distressing:

I think maybe my literature teacher doesn't like me.

I've had my fears, but today when I approached her after class to ask for clarification of a word she scribbled at the end of one of my papers and she didn't beam with smiles as she gave her response I thought, hey. Does she not like me?

I thought about it all the way to the subway.

I mean, I'm at every class. I'm punctual. I turn in all of my assignments in a timely fashion, participate in class, come up with some fairly un-stupid ideas. What's not to like?

Am I obnoxious? I mean, I do sit at the front of every class, and maybe I do beam from ear to ear when she walks in, but that's just because I really like her class. Geez. Listen to me. I can't stand me.

Maybe I should sit in the back, and look sort of morose and troubled. Yeah, that's good.

Is it because I wore that bright pink lipstick last week? Dang. I'm too girly. I knew it! Okay, so I'll put on some sort of ripped clothes, and maybe they should be flow-y. Yeah, flow-y is good. I won't wear any makeup, and I'll perhaps neglect to put on a foundation undergarment and buy a pair of thick soled sandals and run them over with my neighbor's stroller a few times to make it look like I wear them to all my PETA meetings.

Yeah, that's good.

I feel better having a plan. Maybe then she'll like me.

on unsolicited fish plates

Has anyone else seen the commercials for Long John Silver's?

You know, the ones where someone walks up to the fast food counter and orders a greasy and calorie laden dish only to be doused with buckets of water and handed a plate of fish?

Every time I watch that commercial I can't help but think....

I would be really peeved, man.

I mean, if I ordered french fries, you bet your sweet patootie I want my french fries. Also I don't want to have to sit all soaking wet and eat my fish plate that I didn't want in the first place.

I'm just saying.

Also Ellen said that I've been posting about food a lot lately, and she's completely, completely right, so I would also like to say that in my American Lit class today I totally made a comment about how the Gettysburg Address contrasts with the Declaration of Independence and came dangerously close to letting a "booyeah" slip out. I didn't, though. Also I wasn't even thinking about food when I made the comment. For the record.

Booyeah.

a little weezer for your friday

So a fun thing to do when you're supposed to be working on your paper for your literature class is to look up silly music videos on youtube. This has long been a favorite of mine, seeing as it features THE MUPPETS and I really, REALLY love the muppets. Okay, fine. I'll go work on my paper.

just to make it interesting

My shipment of Girl Scout Cookies has arrived.

Five boxes of thin mints.

Yep. I know.

At least it isn't twelve boxes like last year.

i immediately regret this decision

Ahem. Let it be known to all that I, Andrea Boerem, have of my own free will determined to eat only one dessert a week for the month of March.

I'm really not sure what I was thinking.

It just happened so fast- I was doing some grocery shopping with my friend Hillary, and all of a sudden she was telling me how she's cutting back desserts to once a week and I was nodding my head in frenzied agreement and saying "Yeah! I've been meaning to cut back on sweets anyway!!"

Which I have. What? Well, I have.

Really. Although I guess it's been more of an idea floating around the back of my brain, along with some others like wanting to memorize the entire Constitution including amendments (good party trick) and learning how to do a back-flip. You know, things that I never actually plan to do.

I really have been on sort of a shame spiral in the sweets department lately. Now, I've never been one to deny my undying love of sugar. Sure, I'll have chocolate chip cookies for breakfast sometimes, and cheesecake is just as yummy for dinner as it is for dessert, but lately it's gotten.....bad. Really, really bad.

I think I realized it when I polished off the last of an entire sheet of eclair cake. For lunch. Which was followed by ice cream for dinner. Chased by some golden Oreos for a nightcap.

So, it was time for a change. Maybe that's what I was thinking. Or maybe I was shamed into it after reading one of those tell-all stories about supermodel diets where you find out that all they eat is tofu and paper.

Either way, I found myself walking home from the grocery store trying desperately to weasel my way out of my predicament. We said desserts only once a week, but natural sugars were okay. Since fruit and I are still not on speaking terms, I reviewed my remaining options.

Honey is natural. That's good. I love honey. What else? Granola bars are okay, we agreed on those, that's good....hmmm. Things were looking bleak already.

I walked in to the apartment. I'm only eating one dessert a week for the month of March, I said.

Paul stared. Why?

Good question. I mumbled something about eclair cake, and retired to the kitchen to examine the contents of my pantry for something that tasted like a Mars bar without actually containing sugar.

I meant to start on Sunday, but then we had a baby shower to go to and someone brought homemade chocolate mousse and I'm not made of stone, people, so.....I caved. I caved and inhaled that silken chocolatey deliciousness and thought....tomorrow. I'll start tomorrow.

I meant to. I really meant to, but Kevin and Ryanne came over for dinner and they brought S'mores cookies which I had never before heard of but oh heavenly day they smelled celestial, and.... I melted. I melted into a weak-willed Andrea puddle and devoured that S'mores cookie with wild abandon. I only had one, though. That's a start, right?

Things are getting better. This morning, for example, I didn't even think about having my normal pre-breakfast sampling of ice cream. I'm pretty proud of that. Also I made blueberry muffins and I only had two measly ones, so small that really they only count as one. Although I may have put some chocolate chips in the mix. Maybe.

Paul just came in. He saw what I'm posting about. Are you sticking with it? He asked me with a look on his face like I'm about to split myself into two people.

Uh, yeah, I said, the muffins don't count, to which Paul replied WHO ARE YOU KIDDING? THE MUFFINS TOTALLY COUNT, so I said actually they don't because they're just the Jiffy muffin mix kind and I only put a few chocolate chips in them, and chocolate chips are totally found in granola bars and we agreed granola bars are okay and also muffins aren't a dessert they're a snack, so....

I'm good. I'm compliant, and I would like the Invisible Sweets Police People to know that.

Then Paul asked, where are you going to get with denial like that?

I don't know what he's talking about. I'm not in denial.