My Life Was a Gleeful, High School Musical

People from my High School Class of 2001 have often asked me if we are having a 10 year reunion. My first thought is, "How the heck should I know? I might have been popular in Middle School, but let's not kid ourselves -- in terms of HS popularity I peaked in 10th grade. Shouldn't planning the 10 year reunion be the lot of those Seniors who went out on a high note, say, the Prom Court, the Valedictorian who said 'sexpectations' instead of 'expectations' in his commencement speech, or maybe one of those fun kids who discovered an eternal love of alcohol at the tender age of 15, cuz, you know, their parents would rather it be under their roof since their kids were going to do it anyway? Those kids know how to plan a partayy Holla!"

Well, let me just come clean here before I accuse every student in my graduating class: My name is Stephanie Dunn, Stephanie Call for those of you who knew me in 2001, and I harbor unadulterated hostility, the kind that makes me hiss and spit, at the thought of my High School years. So do you. I don't care if you were popular, unpopular, pock-faced or Brad Pitt, scratch that, he's old... I don't care if you looked like freakin' Zac Efron and was the star of your High School Musical-like experience, the world of High School is institutionalized, legal torture. You know it, I know it. Even if there were some great memories and fantastic friendships and inspiring teachers or programs, High School maimed us all. If this is coming from the girl who was voted "Friendliest" in her graduating class, you can bet your bulldog blvd sauntering butts that somewhere in your mind, a little 15 year old child is whimpering in a dark corner saying, "yes, yes I know EXACTLY what you're referring to. Make it STOOOPPPPP!" Yep, High School was not anyone's best years. Ok, that's not true. But we'll leave those poor fools out of this. High School was not most people's best years' in life, and a reunion is like bringing back the dead -- it's stinky, demoralizing, and downright evil, but you can't help but check out the circus.

So, naturally, I am already planning a year in advance to attend it. That's what masochists do. Masochists and kids who have lost 80 lbs or gotten lots of plastic surgery since HS.

I contacted the class president to ask if he was planning it because I was sick of not having an answer for all the people who kept asking me if it was going to happen. Also, I needed to make sure I could follow their statements of "You should do it" with "JOHNFAMISGOINGTODOIT!" John Fam, you are my scapegoat. Holla! 271 represent! Woot woot! Who let the dawgs out?!

Then John Fam invited me to help with the planning. I had a vision of what this next year of planning would look like -- spending everyday trying to contact people -- that one guy with the great calves who laughed at me when I fell flat on my stomach in my sequined choir dress while running down a crowded hallway, whom I looked up at from my sprawled position on the floor and into his snickering face and weakly said, "Sorry". Sorry? Yes, that's what I said -- sorry. But sorry for what? For falling? Sorry for not punching you in the face jackass!!

Yea, clearly I cannot handle planning this reunion. So I declined. Plus, I specifically didn't run for class president my senior year so that in 10 years I could say with complete legitimacy -- "Dude, that's so not my responsibility." Thank gawd. Someone WAY more mature than me can carry that burden (thank you John Fam).

Facebook has made a reunion somewhat of a moot event. We're all voyeuristic cyber-stalkers, very attuned to the happenings in each other's lives since HS. We've all signed up to participate in an elaborate charade since graduating -- one that depicts our lives as mostly a gaggle of fun over the last ten years. To me Facebook extends that phase of life we find ourselves in in high school -- the one we where we are frequently courting the public and trying to win at the popularity contest of life. Even those who have facebook and claim to refuse to participate in the charade are likely announcing how much they don't care about it on their status updates, clearly indicating that they care enough to make sure everybody knows how much they don't care, how above it or over it or underwhelmed by it they are. BS. The only people who really fall into that category don't have a FB account. Admit it! High School is still haunting you!

And now the class of 2001 can prepare to enter that House of Horror, the ultimate Haunted Mansion, in about 10 months. See you there little monsters!

Music and Memories

It took me 27 years, but I have stumbled on a childhood secret.

When I was little, and my young mother and father were divorced, my mom and I traveled cross country in her car a lot.

We all have those cloudy memories of childhood moments, snippets that only last 2 seconds when we try to recall them. But certain things bring them, and the emotions of those moments, into sharper focus. For me these moments of clearer memory recollection have always unexpectedly occurred while shopping in a grocery store, flipping through radio stations while driving, or when pumping gas -- a song comes on, one of the cassette songs my mother would play over and over on those long drives cross deserts and plains, and I am three years old again, sitting in the passenger seat of her car, knowing on some mild level that my dad is gone, and that my mom is sad even though she smiles at me a lot, and I'd get wrapped up in those songs, get utterly lost in the emotions of those melodies. I LOVED those songs. They were full of yearning, and I loved feeling my heart-strings tugged in that exact way at that time. Those songs spoke for my mother and I as we drove in silence for hundreds of miles.

I can't remember ever hearing music before those songs. They were the songs of my childhood, played over and over while driving through the terrains of life.

I have never known the bands, singers, or titles of those songs, but when they pop into my world to say hello from some other sound system, I feel I have never known anything better. Even as a 27 year old, when one of them plays and I sing along, I wonder how I can know the words to a song that is so elusive to me -- I couldn't find it on iTunes if I tried.

Until today.

I was browsing through our iTunes Library to see what we had since of the hundreds of songs downloaded there, I can probably count 20 that I have downloaded -- the rest are Dan's doing. Under "Title" I saw the words "Making Love Out Of Nothing At All" and was alerted that it sounded like the lyrics to one of those nostalgic songs. I clicked on it and sure enough, it was one of several in our Library from a band called Air Supply. I clicked through them all and realized something I never knew--my mom was a big Air Supply fan twenty-something years ago. So was I.

Hobos-R-Us

By now most of you know that hobos are not just people; they are flesh-decomposing venomous Utah house spiders. Dan and I are very familiar with them. In fact, we've had to set up a type of treaty with them since they take up residency with us. It's kinda like vampires and werewolves (You really can explain all life's mysteries with one powerful book: Twilight): no one can prohibit creatures of the night from living close by, but we can at least set up a "Don't harm people" treaty. Since the hobos refuse to move out, we have rules that they must obey.

House Rule #18: "please do not kill us, cause us to wake up with a gaping hole where an eyeball used to be, make our legs look the the guy you got in the pic above, steal all the bedsheets or procreate in the bed you seemed determined to share with us."

That rule follows number 17, which is "If you come out where we can see you, you die," which follows rule 16: "If you come out where we can see you and we've had a bad day, we'll catch you in Tupperware, watch you slowly starve to death, and occasionally shake the container like a banjo." That follows rule #15: "If we see other, non-hobo spiders in the house we will not kill them in case they are feisty enough to kill you. Enter at your own risk."

Needless to say, our house is a spider-central. Just today 2 huge daddy long legs came in through the front door (didn't even knock) screaming "Sanctuary!!!" and all we could do was look at them, shrug our shoulders, and say, "Yep. And an all-you-can-eat hobo buffet." Cause if WE break House Rule number 15, then the hobos have the right to declare all out war and tomorrow I'd be missing an eye.

No joke the photographer of that picture happened to call it "Eyeless Hobo." How ironic!

We've lived like this for a year now. In the winter the hobos virtually disappear, but during the summer months it's hobo mating season and they are wandering around everywhere trying to find their soul mates (as if the little bastards had souls). We do what we can to combat them--set up V traps everywhere, leave certain lights on at night because they prefer to move in the dark, etc. But living with hobos has seriously traumatized me. Everywhere I go I see hobos:






Plus any other dark spot on our carpet that moves (usually ends up being a pillbug, which attracts these suckers):

Lucky us.

As I'm writing this I just glanced to my right and a hobo has broken rule #17. Time to lay down the law...

There :).

Anyway, we've managed. But luckily we are moving soon!!! First House Rule in our new house? "No hobos allowed!"

Letter to 15 Year Old Stephanie

Dear 15 year old self,

I’ll go easy on you to start, because I know how hard you are on yourself. First off, blonde is NOT your color. I know everyone else is getting blonde highlights, but unless you keep that tan up year round (you know, the one responsible for the wrinkle lines I have now), blonde just washes you out.

Second, it’s important that you begin to understand that people-pleasing is not a mantra for life. Don’t worry, eventually you will understand this. Until then, don’t base your worth and identity on being whatever you perceive you are supposed to be for other people’s sakes. Be you. I know it’s hard to accept, but “you” is not so bad.

Stop it with the boyfriends already! Gah! You really don’t need to be in those dramatic, energy-sucking black-holes. In fact, you should probably just have fun dating without getting serious. What will really be your parachute when you get that daily feeling that you are falling off a cliff are your friends, not your boyfriends. In fact, Junior year of HS is going to be your favorite. You will be single, have stellar best friends, a rewarding and challenging academic curriculum, and a blast going to several different proms with several different, nice, fun, NON-boyfriends. But you will still have bad skin. Learn to roll with it.

I know you think everyone keeps you around simply because you are “nice,” but there is a whole lot more to you than that. Nice is not bad, but as your dominant, one-dimensional personality trait, it is going to suffocate you. It is going to make you compromise on things that are important to you, and make you sacrifice developing your own voice. You are going to get swept up and lost in the out-going current by being strictly “nice”. Again, don’t worry, all is not lost. You’ll make a fight for your right to be something along with and other than just nice, like interesting, sometimes off-color, and IMPERFECT! I know, I know, I just said the ultimate swear word. But trust me, perfect is boring. It doesn’t have nearly as much to offer the world as the rainbow of personality where mistakes, sillyness, boldness, rebelliousness, integrity, and freedom dwell. You’ll find your way back to shore eventually. And yes, there are sharks in the water! Swim for the shore anyway! Make a big splash!

Keep it up with the morals. They really do matter, and they will help you avoid a lot of heartache in life. So will your mom, dad, granddad, and the Pentecost’s.

A couple of your best friends now will still be your best friends in 10 years. Even though you can’t see the future, you know which ones they are. It will be unspeakably gratifying to have people in your life who have known the you of years past. In fact, they will know the you in this letter, and when they read it they will probably say to me “You were too hard on yourself back then.” They still say that to you, btw. And they are right.
Keep those friends close. Be brave in a different way than you are trying to be brave now. Let your true self shine – and that INCLUDES your brunette hair for the love of all that is holy!

Sincerely,
27 year old you

Today

Today I danced with a hundred-year-old man in front of dozens of strangers. He asked me to promise that I'd never forget him. I won't.

Genes

This makes me smile.

Tsss sss sss

I don't love to just stare at Dan while he's sleeping... I love to EXPLOIT him! And also to share with you the terror that is sharing a bed with a man who sleeps with his eyes partially open.


It's hard to see in these pics, but his eyes are open in all of them except for one. Look for the glint of the pupil!