How to say goodbye

A few weekends ago, my family and I trekked 2 hours south of Seattle to say goodbye to our family lake cabin. As I drove the familiar, windy back-roads towards what I knew was going to be a weekend filled with emotions, laughs, and reminiscing, I began to contemplate how to say goodbye to such a place.

My parents purchased a tiny, 400 square foot cabin on Mason Lake one year after I was born. It had no inside bathroom, plumbing water was pumped directly from the lake, and the dock was falling apart; it was the beginning of a beautiful thing.

Every year, I eagerly waited for Memorial Day to come so we could once again open up the doors to my favorite place. There is no smell on this earth like that smell when we first opened the door of the cabin after 8 long months. It was a damp, musty smell that I yearned for; it meant the beginning of summer.

Cow and I often joke that we want to move to Montana someday to raise our families. We’ll build our own log cabin neighborhood and shelter our kids from all the crazy things happening in the world. The cabin was my Montana. There was no cell service, no TV, and miles of the outdoors to explore. My brother and I spent an entire summer carving an elaborate system of tunnels and “rooms” through the brush. My dad and I made tables and chairs for my forts, we made a bird house that has been the home to many a creature, and we built a bench to sit by the campfire.






It was a rite of passage to be able to swim across the whole lake while my mom patiently encouraged us from the paddle boat as she guided us across. I learned to water-ski on the lake, earned the nickname “Little Bear” as I spent countless hours hunting and eating huckleberries, and discovered my love of reading when I spent an entire summer reading in the bow of our boat as the waves rocked me.

We used to drive down every December to cut down our Christmas tree. One year, a bunch of friends and family crammed in for Thanksgiving. Every 3^rd of July, there was a huge firework show on the lake. The very first year Patrick and I were allowed to stay up and watch it, we took a nap so we wouldn’t be too tired and ended up sleeping right through the show. I cried endlessly when I woke up and discovered the injustice!  

 Patrick and I used to sleep out on the deck – scrambling inside in the middle of the night if it started to rain. We used to let our cat, Muffin, roam free all weekend and without fail, it would take us 4 hours to find her every Sunday. We’d sprint barefoot everywhere we went; not caring about the sap that would stick to our feet. One summer I fell off our rope swing and my mom made me go back on it immediately so that I wouldn’t let the fall scare me into never doing it again.

There is no place where I sleep as soundly as I did at the cabin. The shower was the best shower, because it didn’t have a water restrictor on it. Hand washing the dishes because there wasn’t a dishwasher never seemed like that big of a chore.     

As a child, the cabin was my wonderland, never failing to provide endless hours of entertainment and adventure. As a teen, it provided comfort far away from the torments of high school and growing up. As a young adult, it provided a short get-away from the pressures of work and figuring out life.

There are no words for this kind of place.

So how do you say goodbye? I think you don’t ever say a real goodbye. Even though I won’t get to drive down this Memorial Day and smell that familiar musty smell, or wake up on the deck at 2AM because of a summer rain, or trample through the forest hunting my favorite purple berry, I will always remember those things. I will tell the stories forever and it will always be a pillar of who I am. 

My family and I spent the weekend cleaning out 25 years of old water toys and cabin memorabilia. We had a toss or keep vote on everything. Mostly we kept everything though, because you never know when you are going to need an inflatable alligator with 2 holes in it purchased sometime in the early ‘90’s. We had a lot of laughs and shared stories from our years there.

A strange thing happened on Sunday afternoon. As that inevitable moment of the final goodbye approached, the Noland family members peeled off one-by-one. There was no group farewell or big announcement. Patrick had to run off for a meeting, then my Mom had to get going to get ready for school on Monday, and their goodbyes were not significant to the moment at hand. In that, I saw that this is change – life goes on, no matter how much I wish it wouldn’t. There will probably be another cabin, there will be new memories, new smells, new laughs, and new moments. The new will not replace the old, but it will dampen the feeling of loss and turn those feelings into just happy memories of what was a magical place.

When it came time for me to head off, I quickly hugged my dad and bolted for the car. I won’t lie to you – I sobbed. I cried so hard I had to pull over…twice. It was not a cute cry, for I am incapable of those. It was one of those uncontained, snot everywhere, hysterical wails – and I am not ashamed. There is no harm in mourning something that was such a cornerstone in one’s life. I think, some days are just sad days, and that’s ok. Some days cannot be saved by slapping on a smile and pretending to be alright. Some days you just have to let go, and cry it out. Tomorrow you can pick yourself up again, but it’s ok to just let some days be shitty.  

My dad loved that every year when we closed the place down I would wave and energetically say “bye cabin” as we pulled out of the drive way. This year’s wave was a little less jovial and there was a lot more snot than I would have liked involved. All in all, however, it was just a goodbye to the physical structure of the cabin, not a goodbye to its memories.  

A woman's brain

I recently read a description of a woman's brain that went like this:

Imagine your computer desk top. Now imagine opening a file folder because you need something out of it. Right when you get that open, you think of something else you need from a different folder, but you don't want to close the first folder because you still need it and don't want to forget that thing. Now imagine this same thing happening about 50 more times...in one hour. So now you have 50 folders open and you have to think about all of them at the same time incase you forget one. Welcome to a woman's brain.

 

Ever since hearing this, I've really been making a marked effort to NOT do this; to not open another folder until I close the one I'm working on. It is nearly impossible. My mind is constantly fighting against what it was BUILT to do. Women are made to withstand this type of thinking. We are wired to think about your needs, and his needs, and that person over there's needs. It is in our DNA.

Going against it makes me feel like I'm trying to change water into wine.

Typical conversation in my head:
What did she say this morning about inventory?
Hmm I should ping Cow and ask her
OH I need to find out how her weekend was
I should totally do something with them next weekend
Nevermind, I have that wedding to go to next weekend
OMG what am I going to wear
I'll go get that cute dress I saw at the Nordy's sale last week
Wonder if they'll have it in stock still
It will be fine - I bet they beef up their inventory for that
SHIT WHAT DID SHE SAY THIS MORNING ABOUT INVENTORY?

So you see, it's been an uphill battle. I've made small improvements at work; very small. I've found I am actually more productive - but not because multi-tasking was hindering this. No, now I just tell myself I can't get up until I've closed at least 5 "folders" - so I find myself going pee a lot less. Productivity is up, but so is bladder pain.

What I'd really like to do is improve my ability to close folders outside of work, but alas, I fear I'll need a therapist to help with that one.

These are my current folders - maybe writing about them will help me file some of them:

I worry about the homeless man I pass everyday on my way to work - did he think I was rude today because I didn't look at him? Does he remember that I gave him a few dollars last week? How often should I give him money? How many other people gave him money this morning?

I worry about the weird hairs I get on my chin sometimes - am I turning into a 95 year old woman before my time? Is it true that if you pluck, they come back darker and thicker? Should I not pluck then? Would my wax girl be mad at me if I plucked? What is my wax girls name?

I worry about how much training I'm doing for Kili - my boxing coach says running is not the best way to train - is he right? What is the best way? Is there really ever a best way to do anything?

I worry about my job - am I doing well? What does my next step look like? When should I take that step? Is that step really the direction I want to take my life? IS IT 5 YET? Is it terrible that I'm asking myself that? Am I allowed to not always LOVE my job, and still be counted as one of the happy people?

I worry about the amount of wine I drink - is it enough? Should I be drinking more?

I worry about how much I give to my relationships - am I spending enough time with the people I love? Do they know that I think about them all the time - that I love to worry about them? Am I balancing my own opinion and their opinion in weighing my choices the right way? Do they know that I am weighing their opinion - even if I don't choose it - that it was in my head - bouncing around - and that I am grateful for it?

I worry about God and my relationship with Him - is He ok with the way I'm living my life, even if it means right now I don't go to church, and I don't pray every night before bed? Does He know that even though I don't show it all the time, I am grateful for and in awe of this world? Is it wrong that I get so angry when other people try to tell me what their God would say; because he is my God too and I just don't agree sometimes? Does he sigh a little and shake his head every time I say "shit"? (I know exactly what he does when I say some of the other ones...)

 

Folders for days people. I think some of these folders will be here forever, a constant worry. Some of them will close as I get more confident in myself, who I am, and what I am becoming...but I'm sure they will be replaced by more - because I am a woman, with a woman's brain. I don't hate it.

**You probably noticed I figured out how to add gif's to these...you're welcome.

THE LIST

Drum roll please.

Introducing: Kelly's ever-growing list of peeves!

Let's start this off with a big one:

Off-brand food items. There are certain things you can skimp on - things like laundry detergent or toothpaste - but for the love of everything delicious, don't you dare present to me some "Kroger" or "Safeway" version of a classic.

Talking in songs. The ONLY song this is acceptable in is "Gimme More" in which "It's Britney B&%*$" was born. I paid to hear you sing, not talk. I recently heard a song in which Mariah Carey had her tiny children recite a monologue mid-song. It took me about .02 seconds to make one of these faces:

And then another 10 minutes to fully recover from the shock that multiple people were in a room and collectively decided baby talk would be acceptable album material.

Opening milk cartons. Do I need to explain this?

Jello salad. I would just like some answers here people. Why is this served at all holiday dinners? Why is a food primarily made of sugar called a salad? Who EVER told someone this tasted good?

Food in the shape of other food. Food is such a sensory experience - a big part of that is visual. If I see something in the shape of a cupcake, I get very excited because a cupcake is delicious. When that cupcake turns out to be a meatball, I get pissed.

Healthy "bad" food. Look, if I'm going to eat a cookie - give me a freaking cookie - with full fat butter and real sugar. Enough with all of this BS about trying to make what is SUPPOSED to be unhealthy, healthy. It's giving me a mental complex.

Stupid people. I recently read this headline on NPR: "As injuries rise, more calls to refuse the 'cinnamon challenge'". For those not aware - the "challenge" is to eat a tablespoon of cinnamon with no liquid to wash it down - you can imagine what some of the results have been. I'm not mad about this for the reason you may think, though. I am not mad at the people who do this challenge - we all do stupid shit sometimes. It's pretty obvious, though, that it comes with hazards. I am mad at the stupid people who blame others when they try things like the cinnamon challenge, and then get hurt. Those are the stupid people who really butter my biscuit. Not long ago, my brother and I tried the "gallon challenge"; you try and drink a gallon of milk in under an hour. After making it through about 3/4 of a gallon, I proceeded to puke about 14 times and experienced the most uncomfortable 24 hours of my life. Who did I blame? Me. That's who. And then I never drank milk again.

Swankifying the simple. I can respect trying to make something that is ordinary, extraordinary. For example, I recently made an "oreo-cookie-brownie." That made things that were already pretty good, ridiculously amazing. Some things though, some things are already perfect, things like S'mores. Don't touch that. Also - in regards to the below - lavender should never be added to any food - ever. It is gross.

Women wearing skirts while running. I have participated in 2 marathons and 1 half marathon. Every time, I see women wearing running skirts. Every time, I want to reach out and punch them in the butt; really-really hard. First of all, if you weigh more than 90lbs - your thighs are touching. Running 26.2 miles with your thighs touching creates friction - so I KNOW you are experiencing some serious "roadrash" down there. The whole POINT of shorts is to put something between those thighs to prevent this awfulness. Second, running 1 mile can be a cute sport. Running 5 miles can even be a cute sport for in-shape people. Running 13.1 or 26.2 miles is never going to be a cute sport. So stop that. Third, this isn't tennis.

When my computer thinks it's the boss. You know who the boss is?! Me and my opposable thumbs. Except in the case below - that was a very stressful situation in which I was not given any option that I wanted to take - aka "wait forever to shutdown".

FB Undersharing. Many complain about people who "overshare" on FB. While I agree with this frustration, I get equally upset when people undershare. If you are going to update your status 10 times in 2 hours with sad Taylor Swift song lyrics, you need to either disclose the reason, or don't do it at all. Otherwise, I have to spend 2 hours searching your wall and photos for potential clues as to what has put you into this state of despair that only more Swifty can cure.

Items that are "two-in-one". This includes, but is not limited to sporks, 2-in-1shampoo conditioner, and skorts. In all cases, both parts of the partnership are equally as important, but one gets the shaft.

Spork - there is not enough fork to grab even one strand of angel hair pasta. Useless.
Shamp/Cond - explain to me, please, how this was ever approved as a product. Shampoo's JOB is to wash off dirt, grime, and yesterday's hair product. Conditioner's job is to provide a protectant AFTER the hair has been stripped and cleaned by shampoo. So, when I do both of these things at the same time - I don't understand how the conditioner is not being washed off by the shampoo. My hair apparently does not understand it either because any time I have been forced to use this so called product, I end up with dreads, which to clarify, is not hair.
Skort - same idea as the mullet? Classy in the front, party in the back? Useless.

Don't think that I haven't realized that the majority of these items are food related. I have come to terms with my OCD food preferences and am dealing with them in counseling.

Bait and Switch

On a recent date, we played the "questions game". Really, this game is just an excuse to be able to ask all of the questions you would normally have to wait to find out the answers to.

For example, I ask things like:

• What is your stance on sitting on the same side of the booth when on a date? (Unacceptable)
• How attached are you to your Christmas traditions (I will not give mine up...)
• How do you feel about lateness (I have a standard 15 minute policy. As in, I am always 15 minutes late)

All this to say, one of date's questions was: What are your biggest pet peeves?

At first, I came up blank. I couldn't think of anything! I sat there smugly for like 5 minutes thinking "Kelly, you are SO tolerant! Look at you and your patience for others. Plus 5 points for you."

Then the inevitable happened - I thought of a pet peeve, then I thought of another one, and then I couldn't stop! They just kept rolling off my tongue! I literally had an out of body experience; I saw myself going on and on about things that annoy me. As I talked more, I got more animated, like DATE was doing these things to me as I said them!

Spirit Kelly was screaming "STOP. STOP OR WE WILL BE SINGLE FOR LIFE." But body Kelly did not care. Did. Not. Care. She just hair tossed and barreled on for 10, 15, 30 minutes.

Listing, listing, listing things. Stupid things, random things, totally absurd things that no one should be allowed to get mad about things, and things spirit Kelly did not even KNOW we hated things!

By the end of my rant I was exhausted. I felt like I had purged myself. I was sagging at the table; shoulders slumping from the exertion of expelling so much negative and angry energy into the world.

I was so tired, yet so elated, free. I could hear Tom Cruise screaming, I'm FRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEE FALLIN' a la Jerry Maguire, as I looked across the table at my date's scared and very round eyes.

I've heard that you are supposed to hide your crazy for at least 3 months when dating someone. The point being that you lure them in with all the awesome you, and then when you show them crazy you, they are already hooked. Bait and switch.

I did the exact wrong thing. I showed the crazy first. I put my Michael Jackson on display. I laid it all out there and said do with this cray cray what you will.

Something odd happened though - date did not run...or rather, has not run yet...

Bing searches of late:
Grey vs. Gray (because who really knows...)
"Out of body Experiences" images (this is what I had to choose from people)

 

Stay tuned for my ever growing list of pet peeves in the next blog!

Soup BACK!

This tale involves mini vans, tarps, a prostitution ring, and chopsticks. Enjoy!

A few weeks ago I journeyed to L.A. to see some friends from college. One of my coworkers, whom we shall call B, went down as well. B is asian, Chinese to be exact. I tell you this not to give you a mental image of him, but because it is a key factor in this story.

They say birds of a feather flock together; and I know this to be true because B has a flock of Asian friends. Often when I hang out with him and his posse, I am the only white person for miles. The first night we arrived in LA, this was the case.

The plan was to meet up with some of his friends at a bar in Korea town and see where the night took us. As B and I waited outside for his friends to arrive, I started to take stock of the surroundings. I could hear loud voices coming from the bar, but all of the windows had banners over them so I couldn't see in.

A mini van pulled up and let out an asian girl wearing some sky high heels and half of a skirt. I thought, "huh, what a nice guy to let his girlfriend off at the door so she doesn't have to hobble around in those heels." Another mini van pulled in and dropped 2 more girls wearing similar outfits off. Mental monologue: "Must be a cultural thing! How sweet, all of these guys being so nice to their girlfriends."

When the 3rd and 4th mini vans pulled up and dropped a few more girls off, I started to get suspicious. I'm sorry, but there just aren't THAT many gentlemen driving mini vans around Korea town. Then it dawned on me - prostitution ring - obvi.

 At this point, I had my doubts about going into this particular bar. I said to myself, "Kelly, if this were a movie, surely it would be called Hostel, Part V - Korea Town." For those of you not familiar with the Hostel movies, they are a series of scary films about tourists who get murdered in horrible ways. Extremely pleasant stuff. Alas, you only live once and I felt safe with my posse of Asians surrounding me.

As we walked into the bar, the first thing I saw were blue tarps...everywhere. There must have been 20 tarps hanging from the ceiling.

What. The. F&*$. Instincts are screaming: Get. Out. GET OUT WHILE YOU STILL HAVE ALL YOUR LIMBS...I said this to myself as I continued walking further into the bar.

The tarps were acting as barriers between multiple picnic tables. Each of the tables had piles of dirty plates on them, but no people were sitting there. It was like a scene from the apocolypse. There was only one table with people, and it was occupied by about 20 very loud, very drunk men. As we walked further into the establishment looking for more signs of life, I resigned myself to my inevitable fate: I was going to die tonight.

We arrived at the back of the restaurant portion of the bar and were faced with a closed door and a large bouncer. This man said nothing to us. No, "Hi, welcome to this reputable establishment." No, "May I please see your ID?" He just sat, and stared at us. A line of the aforementioned women walked past our group and were immediately granted permission to this secret back room, no questions asked.

At this point, B and I made eye contact, which was more like two deer in head lights staring at eachother in fear. We immediately turned on our heels and swiftly exited with the rest of our group.

Our next stop on "Mission: Die Tonight" was a bar just a few blocks away. I did the following mental checklist as we walked in:

No blue tarps? Check
Females wearing clothing covering more than 30% of their bodies? Check

Good to go.

And it was good to go. We spent the next few hours happily sipping on soju (Korean version of sake). 2AM arrived, and I thought we would be headed home since the bar was closing. I thought wrong.

In Korea Town, 2AM only indicates that it's time for a location change. As we paid our bill, the waitress handed B a slip of paper with an address on it. Evidently, this was the address of an after hours bar. Naturally, we paid up and began the trek to our next destination!

We arrived at the indicated address only to find a deserted parking lot, shops that looked like they had long since closed for the night, and no human life in sight. Confused, we paced around the parking lot for a bit trying to figure out what we were missing.

Suddenly, a door cracked open and we heard someone whisper, "Pssssst. Over here!" There was a hand waving us inside what looked like a completely dark and vacant building. I giddily thought, "another chance to die - yay" and walked on in.

We were swiftly directed up a flight of stairs. The scene on the inside was a mirror opposite of the silent, lifeless, and dark world we had just left. Bright lights invited us into the room, tables full of people eating and drinking erased my fears of death by chopstick, and we were shown a table. Our Korean posse quickly ordered up a few bottles of soju and some soup.

Kelly: "What did you just order?"
B: "We ordered spicey soup and then soup you can have."
Kelly: "I can't have the spicey soup?!"
B: "No. That shit is spicey for me, and I'm Asian. No spicey soup for you."
Korean Friend: "Soup is the best back for taking shots."
Kelly: "Whaaattt?? That sounds gross... let's try."
B, Kelly, and Korean Friends after every drink for the rest of the night: "SOUP BAAACK!"

And that my friends, is the tale of how I survived a night in Korea Town, witnessed a prostitution ring, and created a new drinking mantra. Seriously, try a soup back the next time you find yourself taking a shot of soju in Korea Town at 3AM. It will rock your world.