Reverting Back To Adolescence? Oh, great.

They say you can never go home.  I don't know who "they" are, but that's what "they" say.  They say it's impossible to go back to your childhood home and feel the same way you felt growing up.  That the nostalgia you feel is for something that never quite existed.

Well I call shenanigans.

A friend of mine from college was visiting family and friends in the area recently, and we met for dinner with a mutual friend.  That afternoon the two of them had been hanging out at one of their childhood homes.  My friend told me that she felt the same embarrassment with her mom trying to be the "cool mom" now as she did when we were teenagers.

This post took twice as long to write as it should have because I kept getting distracted by this GIF.

I thought that was kind of interesting, because I've experienced a similar feeling for years!  Don't get me wrong.  I love my parents.  They're hardworking people with good hearts.  They raised my brother and me to be intelligent, independent, creative, and funny.  They provided everything we needed as kids and then some.  They're a good example for relationships (celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary next week!).  I knew this as a teenager, though I scarcely understood how to appreciate it, and I know this now.  I have a great relationship with my parents and talk to them on the phone multiple times per week.  But something strange happens when I'm around them and other people I know at the same time.  Inevitably I revert back to being a pain-in-the-ass 17 year old.  I cringe at every interaction my parents have with anyone I've ever talked to ever.  I'm ridiculous.

For example, last month I was visiting my friend in Chicago and decided to stop in my hometown and have lunch with my mom.  We went to a local cafe and settled on a table near the front.  Just as our orders arrived, a couple entered the cafe.  The husband and wife are both retired teachers from the schools I attended.  They stopped at our table, and I was pleasantly surprised that they remembered me.  We chatter for a couple of minutes, and they went to place their orders.  As they sat down at their own table, I mentioned to my mom that they were two of the best teachers I ever had growing up.  

I had the wife for 6th & 7th grade social studies.  She was a great teacher and a sweet lady whom I loved, despite the fact that she gave me my first and only detention ever.  He was a hard-ass high school math teacher who took the time to reteach me everything I was supposed to learn in 8th grade Algebra I in order to pass his HS Algebra II class.  He was widely known throughout the school to be one of the toughest teachers, but we all knew he had a heart of gold.  He taught for more than 30 years, I think, and he really cared about educating the kids in his class.  As far as husband/wife teacher teams in my hometown go, I think you'd be hard-pressed to find a more beloved couple from that time period.

Anyway, as we wrapped up our lunch, my mom went back up to the counter for some reason.   As she made her way back to our table, I watched in horror as she stopped at the couple's table, and said (loud enough for the entire cafe to hear), "My daughter just told me that you guys were two of the best teachers she ever had in this town."  They were very gracious, of course, because I'm sure they've heard that before, and also, who doesn't like to hear nice things about themselves?  I, however, slunk down into my chair like a teenage boy with scoliosis and became even more engrossed with checking Twitter on my phone as my face turned scarlet from embarrassment.

My mother moseyed back to the table with a smile on her face; she was pleased with herself.  As she approached, I hissed at her, "Moooooooooommmmmmm! What were you thinking?!  Why would you do that?!"  

She was confused by my humiliation.  "What?  I thought they would like to hear the nice things you had to say about them."

"I understand that, but why did you have to do it while I was sitting within earshot?!  God, that's so embarrassing!"  I whispered.  Clearly this was a disaster.  Clearly.  

Now, I know that it was not, in fact, a disaster.  And my former teachers probably were touched that I mentioned them to my mom.  But at that moment in time, it was like being transported back to freshman year of high school, and having my mom tell a boy I had a crush on that I liked him.  (That actually never happened in real life, but I can imagine how humiliating it would be.)

Having dinner with my friends last week, and hearing their versions of the same stories about their own mothers, made me feel both better and worse.  Better because I'm not the only one who has such a strong reaction to my parents unwittingly embarrassing me.  Worse, because this is my life?!  A grown-ass woman acting like an obnoxious teenager any time my parents interact with anyone from my past in my presence?  Boo.

I have no resolution to this situation.  I fear I am doomed to behave like a surly adolescent in public with my parents for the rest of my life.  That's not a particularly attractive proposition for me.  So tell me, how do you overcome these feelings?

Marriage 2.0? Splendid

Whoops!  I didn't get around to posting last week because things were INSANE, but to make up for it, I'm sharing a ridiculous story that happened recently...

My roommate and I have lived together long enough that if same-sex common law marriages were a thing in Illinois, we would have one.  Cohabiting for so long comes with a whole bucket of strangeness.  If you follow us on twitter (@KLandSP) you get a sneak peek into what it's like to live in our house.

We've been told by more than one person that our lives should be a reality show.  I think that's a compliment?  It wouldn't actually be a great TV show though, because it would mostly consist of us making snarky remarks at the TV while watching the backlog on our DVR or episodes of Doctor Who.

We have honed some ridiculous communication skills that include, but are not limited to, understanding each other while yawning, burping, chewing, and laughing.  We have even been known to communicate telepathically, like the characters on one of our favorite shows, How I Met Your Mother.

Recently we attended a bachelorette party in the Chicago suburbs for a college friend.  The pub where the party started offered the bride-to-be a free dessert, and the group of us gladly accepted it on her behalf because 1) most of us had already been drinking for 3 hours and 2) dinner reservations weren't for another hour.  

The waiter brought out the dessert, which seemed like some kind of ice cream cake with a chocolate cookie crust and strawberries and whipped cream.  We passed it around, and Stacey held the plate while I tried to break off a bite for myself.  I grabbed a dollop of whipped cream before sinking my fork into the frozen treat and trying to break through the cookie crust.  After attempting to be dainty about it and getting nowhere, I finally put some effort into it, and shot the cookie crust one way, the whipped cream another, and ended with a forkful of ice cream.  I happily ate the ice cream, found the piece of cookie crust, and checked the table for the dollop of missing whipped cream.  It didn't take long for me to realize that the whipped cream had landed on Stacey's forearm.  Without even the slightest hesitation or real eye contact, she offered her forearm to me, and I licked the whipped cream directly from her skin.

This is a recreation of the incident substituting sour cream for whipped cream.
Thanks to Mariah for taking this picture.

We immediately started cracking up, not because of the sheer ridiculousness of what had transpired, but because it was so normal for us!  

We're also just so comfortable with each other, you know?  About 4 years ago I started referring to my boyfriend and Stacey as my Life Partners.  Both relationships are very important to me, as I spend the majority of my time with one or both of them.  (Next year I want to send Christmas cards from the three of us with pictures in matching sweaters or something equally nuts.)  Each relationship provides me with something the other doesn't.  My boyfriend obviously provides me with a romagical (romance + magical = romagical) relationship that I won't elaborate on and Stacey doesn't provide. Whereas she will do things with me that Scott won't.  For instance, she will happily watch Real Housewives of ___________ (pick a city - we love nearly all of them) with me.  She will accompany me to Target 99% of the time.  She is always ready to go get ice cream with me, no matter when she plans to eat lunch or dinner that day.  

I shared this story and it's absurdity with our friend, Elizabeth, recently, right after we came to the common law marriage conclusion.  Elizabeth remarked that what Stacey and I share should be called Marriage 2.0, because we've been together so long.  It's obvious that we enjoy living together, and we stick together because we want to be roommates.  We take trips and mini-vacations together (Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Louis!).  We consult each other on all major life choices (Should I accept this job offer? or How do these pants look?).  We even do projects together - like the ukuleles we're building together.  That's definitely a blog post for the future...

This is My Life?! Splendid!

If I've seen you in the past two weeks, you've probably heard both of these stories.  For those of you who haven't heard them already, let me introduce you to a new series called "This is my life?!" that will showcase the slightly ridiculous moments that happen to me.  If you follow me (@klareau3) or our house (@KLandSP) on Twitter, you'll probably get snippets of these stories.  Here are the full (overly)dramatic versions.

The first story takes place just over two weeks ago.  I had an interview that afternoon, and it was unseasonably hot that day (welcome to Central Illinois, where the weather is schizophrenic), so when I came home, I changed from my interview dress to a lounge-about-the-house dress.  I decided to unwind for awhile by watching YouTube videos, and I became intrigued by the Colors of the Rainbow tag videos being made by some of the vloggers I follow.  The concept was to talk about one of your favorite beauty/fashion items for each color of the rainbow (plus pink and multi-colored).  I decided I wanted to make a video response.  

I set up my camera in the dining craft room, opened the blinds and turned on the lights.  I decided that I couldn't wear the lounge-about-the-house dress because it has weird straps, and I have to wear a cami underneath it, and there were just too many straps involved to make me comfortable on-camera.  I took off the lounging dress, and went back into the craft room to finish putting on my makeup so as not to get any makeup on the dress I was going to wear in the video.

Before I go any further, let me describe where I live.  It's a small house with two front doors situated on the corner of a side street and a busy one way street.  There's a bike lane along the one way street.  The window of the dining craft room looks out onto the one way street, but based on assertions by my roommate who never sees me wave at her from that window, I basically assume that most people can't see me...

As I adjusted my makeup in the dining craft room, I happened to notice a young man riding his bike on the sidewalk just beyond our front porch.  Now, I can't be positive that he saw me, wearing nothing but beige undergarments, but he did look directly at the window.  And I swear, in that moment, not only did he see me, but it felt like he looked into my soul.  I immediately scampered back into my room and threw the dress on.  Then just for good measure, I closed and locked both front doors that had been standing wide open so as to encourage a breeze inside the house.  Luckily for me, he kept on riding, but seriously, this is my life?!

Then last Friday, I was getting ready to north for my cousin's graduation party.  I had just gotten out of the shower and was wearing my pj's, which may or may not have been decorated with not only toothpaste spots but also a nice big smudge in the exact neon orange dust that is found on Cheetos. (Hint: it did.)  Most of my wet hair was sectioned for drying, and I had a single braid down the center of my head.  Since I'm home alone so often, I rarely get ready without playing music.  I was dancing around, like one does, as Mick Jagger serenaded me with "Let's Spend the Night Together."  To be honest, Mick was also serenading half the block, and there's a very real chance window panes were rattling in my little house.  The hair dryer was going, I was singing, and over all that cacophony, I heard four loud knocks on a front door.

As I emerged from the bathroom to pause the music, I saw the landlord standing on the porch.  He stopped by to check in about a few things and ask if we were planning to sign another year long lease.  The entire conversation probably didn't take longer than 5 minutes, but it felt like eternity.  In those four minutes, I think a bus full of school children unloaded at the corner, people were walking their dogs, and I was sopping wet on the porch in sweatpants talking to my landlord.  

The landlord is a nice enough guy, but he doesn't get me.  When we originally signed the lease, Stacey and I were in a good mood, making jokes about how we were excited to move to a neighborhood that didn't necessitate having the police on speed dial, and he just didn't get us.  Since then I felt like every conversation between the two (or three, if Stacey's around) of us has been awkward.  I could tell that he really didn't know how to process the sight before him.  I think it was the hair that put him over the edge, not the Cheeto dust.

As he turned to leave, I turned the music back on.  Once more in the bathroom with the hair dryer and the singing, I heard four more loud knocks at the door.  It was deja vu all over again.  I came back out of the bathroom to find the landlord on the porch again.  Now, he claimed that he had forgotten to mention one last thing while we were talking, but I'm pretty sure he was just floored by my beauty, grace, and glorious singing voice and was desperate to be in my presence.  This time I made sure his car had pulled away from the curb and was on its way down the street before I turned the music back on.

I do have a sense of shame, and I do get embarrassed from time to time, but stories like these happen to me so often that it doesn't make sense to feel embarrassed about them anymore.  Instead I share my potential shame with the world and hope that it makes somebody feel a little bit better about their day.