It's a Wonderful Life

I open my eyes to a cacophony of sounds.

I pull my new iPhone from under the pillow where I’ve hidden it from the cat, blink my eyes at the time: 8:37 a.m.

I retreat further into my cloud bed; my time capsule of a room has kept me safe thus far WHAT THE HELL IS ALL OF THAT NOISE!?

There are seriously layers upon layers of sounds right outside of my bedroom door, with 2 of the layers INSIDE my room with me. 

My pillow engulfs my head as I identify them: 24 years of life – I expected these sounds.

I am quickly able to detect that my father is yes, vacuuming while the Roomba stumbles its’ way around our obstacle ridden house like a drunk man. By the sounds of it, the Roomba has trapped itself in my dad’s closet, doing its best to blindly capture years of animal hair while inadvertedly unearthing things probably best left alone.  The Roomba was a Christmas gift to my parents from my brother who probably rather wisely, decided not to come home this year. Samir the cat will not ride the Roomba, which renders it useless in my mind. But my parents now have 3 vacuum cleaners, and a twice-a-month house cleaner who goes by the name of Janey. I know one thing about Janey: she must not do a very good job because my parents still have 3 vacuum cleaners, and I think they are all in use At This Very Moment.

 My mother is in the kitchen. I don’t’ think either of us know what she is doing but she is non-stop. If she wore a pedometer, I believe it would tell her to sit down. The tv is on like, 50 decibels, because it needs to be heard over both vacuum cleaners plus the dishwasher, AND make it through 3 rooms so that I can hear it in my dreams. I try to decipher if it’s Sunday Morning on CBS. That would be worthy of getting up for right now. But it’s Saturday and I hear them say something about “titans” and I retreat further.

Strangely, within the walls of my time capsule and from under the cloud comforter on my bed, I can hear the tiny sighs of my dog Mattie, whom I’ve trapped in my room with me out of love. I am jealous of her old age deafness right now. She is sleeping VERY peacefully.

Outside, one of the 4 dogs that my parents have collected to replace my brother and me is lapping water out of the water bowl underneath my window. I do not blame my parents. Dogs are nice. They will love unconditionally, forgive anything. They are funny, and as soon as they aren’t, you can put them right back outside and deal with them later. This sounds ideal next to raising a human being.   

I go right back to debating what to do next. The irony is not lost on me: my apartment in NYC is much, much quieter than this. 4 women in their mid-20s will sleep past 8:30 on a Tuesday, and definitely on a Saturday.

I’m well aware that my parents are trying to tell me something. I believe it is something like this: You are home with us, and we want your attention. We will make so much noise that even your time capsule of a room cannot save you, and we decided to open your door and let Samir out of your room – your prisoner of love technique was making a terrible caterwauling sound, plus you get to be a part of our morning routine.

See, listen to the sound that this new Ninja you gave me for Christmas makes while I crush ice and other unknown variables for your breakfast smoothie!

I should have known better.

I make sure to acknowledge them as they walk past my room by moving a body part, so they know I’m paying attention. Dad has big heavy footsteps that indicates he is does not want to be the only person awake in this house. I think my mom has on slippers on that are too big, because she is doing a lot of shuffling, mixed in with quick steps that stop short – probably to rub at some spot on the floor.

I realize I have a problem and it’s called I slept in only my underwear at my parents house and I need to use the bathroom. My parent’s movements around the house seem unpredictable, which deems my first thought of dashing across the hall, unnoticed, to the bathroom in just my underwear an unsuccessful venture. I know from experience that a dog bed has been placed strategically outside my door, and it will trip me. I will be noticed, out of bed and in my underwear, sneaking to the bathroom.

I decide against sad humiliation and with clothes on, make it to the bathroom where Samir, even though he is mad at me for trapping him in my room with me climbs into my lap, begins to headbutt my face. We love each other. I sneeze; my mother hears me, “Bless you! Good morning!” followed by “Do you want coffee?” which means, you’ve been in bed too long and I’m throwing out all reserves – I’ll be happy to bring it you under the silent agreement that you begin your day, NOW. “How do you like it?”

Suddenly I’ve got a black coffee, with 2.5 teaspoons of sugar in it, as well as a fruit smoothie. I wave at my parents from my bed, a Saturday morning double-fister, from behind the pages of DRY, by Augusten Burroughs, whose life in rehab probably draws close parallels to my own life that I refuse to acknowledge right now. 

I find an uncrushed ice cube in my smoothie. 

My mother walks into my room – “I found these shoe inserts in my closet!” and places them on my bed. She has on exercise clothes. I see my father wandering around in the yard outside my window, like seriously wandering, and my mom smiles at me from the foot of my bed, “You ready?”

"Write it. I think you should write all of this down," she said over the phone, during our weekly Sunday evening phone call.

Freedom is a hot dog.

I wanted to call this posting I Am An Adult! because I have had *a lot* of adult situations recently that I wanted to recount.
Or not so recently - because sometimes I lose track of time, but either way, they've happened.
But these groundbreaking words came from one of my undereducated, excessively wise adult students when asked to provide an example of what freedom might be like in America and he comes up with "Freedom is a hot dog."
At the time, it was an under appreciated hyperbolic comment, not amusing whatsoever to my end of the day hungry/headachy/why don't we still understand the differences between similes and metaphors and the fact that we are talking about an IDEA, that has absolutely no concrete, overprocessed meat-like qualities at all, self.
But over a candle lit, dinner for two it became so outrageously funny, and amazing, and true.
It's an appropriate title for this post, because once you see it clearly enough, you too will understand that Freedom is a hot dog.

I bought a bison skull recently.
A friend sent me a Craigslist ad - he knew I was in the market.
Luckily the owner lived in my neighborhood. Agreeing to meet, I found him with a giant IKEA bag, my soon-to-be bison skull stuffed inside it, unceremoniously waiting in front of the Starbucks down the street.
A brief discussion ("yea... my girlfriend didn't like it... what?! this thing is amazing. you should be getting rid of her!") and brief awkward silence ("...") and I handed over $60 happily - I've been wanting this amazing conversational centerpiece for so long - I'm gonna be SO HIP.
My brain processes the easy math --> Allyn = quadruple win (close to home+cheapish+amazing hip skull that definitely looks like it came from Arizona...or Mexico+new IKEA/laundry bag) vs. boy from Craigslist = zero (squeamish girlfriend+loss of cool skull+carrying a bison skull in an IKEA bag waiting awkwardly in front of Starbucks) and what a steal! So easy!
My friend drilled the hole in the brick fireplace in the wall for my new skull (which I very ceremoniously call Beatrice and she is a strident feminist with no desire for gender restraints in her proud horns) as I tried to vacuum the brick dust straight out of the air (I can be very efficient, you see) and a few attempts in, Beatrice has a new home on my wall. Over my bed. Protruding into the center of my room.

I promptly took a picture and proudly sent the picture out, to like, everyone - look at my adult decorating skills! And I did it on the cheap! Who said Craigslist is for creeps?

My father's response: If I had known this was your current taste in home decorating, I would have shipped the dead deer carcass that Futar caught last week.
Mine: ...
Best man friend's response: That thing is going to scare the shit out of you.
Mine every single time I wake up at 3 am to use the bathroom: OMG what the!?

I am, clearly, an adult.

To be fair, I think the same thing when I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror at 3am. But that's just because we have poor lighting. That said, guess who doesn't bother turning on the bathroom light anymore? And in case you were wondering (unless you share the same 3am sentiment), yes.
3am guessing games are difficult.

It's kinda springish here... sometimes. And on a particularly spring-like day, I bought a pair of lovely, neutral, open-toed, extremely stylish boutique flats for my ugly dancer/runner feet for $60 so I could tromp around in sudden spring-time downpours, and tread carefully around the dirt and trash lining the subway tracks on my morning commute to my new adult job down on Wall St.

In my head, I look glamorous.
There I am, in my expensive adult wear (neutrals, classy peep toes, red blazer that screams grandma/hip Brooklynite) emerging, bright eyed and bushy tailed, coffee in hand, onto Wall St., the sun bouncing off of the ever-growing Freedom Towers into my eyes, highlighting the yellow brick road to my meaningful adult job in the non-profit human rights sector...
I can look glamorous in your eyes, too, if you imagine me as the urban version of Fraulein Maria in The Sound of the Music, running up the subway stairs singing "Thank goddddd I'm aliiiive, I hate all those peeeeeeople." because once again, I've barely survived my morning commute to the Financial District as I've tried to drink my coffee, read a book on feminism, listen to music, and wield an unruly umbrella like a crazy woman fighting off invisible bats.

And honestly, when someone figures out how the modern woman is supposed to gracefully hold her coffee, while digging in her oversized bag that contains her lunch, her yoga pants, and seven tubes of chapstick for her wallet that holds her metrocard without holding up an impatient line of New Yorkers - ya let me know, ok?
And if you don't have the answer, do not judge me for slurping the spilled locally brewed coffee like an anteater from the fine ridges of my 15,000x recycled, organic coffee cup.
I can see your eyes giving me the once-over in the reflection of the subway car windows and I do not like the judgement that I see.
I paid for it. I'm gonna drink it.

See? I am an Adult.

I think it's this fiestyness that has deemed me fit for bed rest for a few days.
Between the never ending lament for life clarity while working 2 jobs, attempts at successfully attending advanced modern dance classes, yoga certification training, hill repeats and long runs for 1/2 and marathon training, teaching ESL, this bizarre sinus drainage that results in a smoker-like hacking cough when I start laughing, and the kidney stone that tried to kill me a few nights ago - I'm still living the dream... of obtaining my grad degree, taking off a few years for the Peace Corps, starting a dance company, becoming a successful ethnographer with no qualms about never coming back from research, and having a night out with the roommates that always ends in the good kind of sleepover where you definitely get brunch the next day, with both bagels and home fries. 
Adulthood - you wear me out!

All in all, I'm still dealing with a bunch of nouns.
All the Persons.
All the Places.
All the Things.
All the Unexplainable/Unattainable Ideas.

Sometimes I think - Ain't Nobody Got Time For That.
Partly because it's fun.
Like exclaiming Ha! when your roommate says something absolutely mindblowingly ridiculous regarding... her lunch for the day, as she tries to squeeze it into a baggie.
Ha! She told that sandwich.
And partly because it's true.
Ain't Nobody Got Time For All That.

Ain't Nobody Even Like Over-Processed, Meat-Like Substances. 

I've had a full house. It has been a tight squeeze in my Brooklyn apartment, between all of the happy faces that were moving back and forth between the kitchen and living room, spilling into the backyard for a few deep breaths of crisp winter air, knees touching on the couch.

And after the voices and the glitter and the slow mornings followed by fast evenings, we're back in a routine that somewhat resembles the daily life of a bunch of... girls... living in Brooklyn in their 20s. So really, not much has changed - we still have the occasional full house, exchanging exhausted "heys" and flustered "see you tonight" comments in the hallway, copious amounts of glitter on the floor that WILL NOT GO AWAY and the fridge is suspiciously empty of food, but the sink is always full of dishes which is just confusing. I'm convinced someone is playing a joke on me.

The new year came quickly, unbelievable quickly. So much can happen, did happen, in a year.
The resolves aren't the same as last year, but my life isn't what it was a year ago.
(And if you are looking for an amusing, insightful, touching article on new year resolutions, click here).

Either way, 365 days make remembering everything that happened in the past year really difficult.

I'll tell you what I do know (which is all I can do anyways):

Last year was many things. It was a dance, and it was a story made of many. There were many characters (so many, I lose track). There were blinding lights and foggy thoughts, rampant emotions and lots of cheese. Last year was loss, and tears and some obviously inexplicable faith. Last year was phone calls and letters that stopped me in my tracks, and made me shake uncontrollably. Implosion seemed likely and just because it didn't happen doesn't mean it isn't possible.
Last year was the relentless effort to pay attention, to respect, to love.

Last year was many hands, for high fives and handshakes and support.

Last year had chapters of seemingly convoluted pages, and there are recounts of long runs with shoelaces coming undone, last year gasped for air. Last year had waiting rooms and coffee houses, hospital rooms and youtube videos. And there were coloring pencils and hair fascinators, too. Last year was full of goodness, of keeping the laughter, keeping the strength, keeping the lights on.
Last year was the accumulation of things, of all the things. Last year was about letting go, too.
Last year was a story that left me with lingering concerns about lasting impressions.
Because last year made me think about the world beneath our feet, about giving and taking, lines drawn and lines crossed.
Last year's storyline was a process of taking two steps forward, one (or two or three or four steps) back and I often doubted the story but mostly, I doubted the storyteller.
But last year's story includes thankfulness for the process, and the meaningful practicality of a book of stamps my mother sent in the mail. Last year sought and found some sort of forgiveness among its painful character development, interconnected underlying themes, and thick plot line.

Here's to the New Year.