How people without kids spend Halloween

We could have embraced our fading youth and dressed up all sexy and silly, hit any one of the local bars holding costume contests, and enjoyed ghoulish cocktails. Or we could have gone all domestic and made a nice corn chowder and some caramel apples. We even could have watched "The Great Pumpkin" while carving a few of our own. Instead, we spent Halloween acting like 78-year-olds. (And we didn't even need costumes!)

James started the afternoon with a trip to the doctor for an annual check-up, where he narrowly escaped a prostate exam after explaining to the nurse that he wasn't there for quite such a comprehensive physical. "Yeah," she said. "We don't usually do them on guys under 40."

I joined him at the hospital to keep him company while he waited to get blood work done. He was in and out in a few minutes, but then we waited for nearly an hour for someone to call him for another test, only to find out that the young, cleavage-showing Cleopatra (complete with headdress) hadn't ordered it.

By the time we were done at the hospital, James was starving, having just fasted for over 12 hours for the blood work. I told him we could go wherever he wanted to eat. We made our way to Bob Evans, where we were at the front-end of the Early Bird crowd. We fit right in with our beef tips and noodles, pot roast sandwich, and coleslaw.

Next we drove across the street to Rite Aid so James could drop off a prescription and I could get a brace for my wrist, which I'd somehow hurt while taking pillow cases off of pillows and then chasing after the cat. (I'm lucky it's just a sprain. Bones get brittle as we age.) While at the pharmacy, I decided to pick up some Preparation-H Medicated Wipes, since I'd noticed earlier in the day that we were running low.

James and I lurked around Rite Aid, waiting for his prescription to be filled. While perusing the wide array of dental floss currently on the market, I turned to him and said, "We've really had a geriatric Halloween."

"Maybe when we get home you can rub some BENGAY on me," he said.

Trick or treat, everybody. Trick or treat.

All that glitters

You know that girl in your head who tells you can't do it, so why even try? Well, I know that she's a liar, but she has me petrified. I'm not mad at her, because I understand that she's just scared and doesn't want to see me fail. Her scope is so limited that she can barely imagine the possibility that I might succeed, or at least have some fun along the way. I feel bad for her (let's call her Violet) because she usually sits alone, cautiously looking around, making sure that nothing will force her out of her comfortable little corner. Violet is extremely suspicious of the other girl (let's call her Phoebe) who lives across the way, in another corner.

Unlike Violet, Phoebe doesn't usually stay put. She's all over the place, flitting here and there, running about laughing, even venturing over to Violet's corner and inviting her to come out and play. On a good day, Violet does. And each time it's like discovering a whole new world. "Look at this!" says Phoebe. "Isn't it beautiful? Isn't it fun? Aren't we wrapped up in the joy and wonder of it all?"

On those good days, Violet responds, "Yes! I never knew it could all be so marvelous! How could I ever think that my one little corner was enough?" And she and Phoebe hold hands, laughing, skipping, just living and breathing pure magic.

But on the bad days, Violet, who has a pessimistic and mean streak, looks at Phoebe and says, "What's the use? What's so great about any of this? You keep trying, but it's just so hard sometimes, isn't it? Wouldn't you rather take a nap, Phoebe?"

Phoebe is fiercely independent and annoyingly optimistic, but even she can't hold out forever. Most of the time she simply tells Violet that she loves her and will always welcome her to come and play. But sometimes, on the worst of days, Phoebe takes Violet's gloomy advice and retreats to her own corner, drifting into an uneasy sleep.

__________________________________

A few weeks ago I signed up for a Postcard Swap hosted by Karen of Chookooloonks. The idea instantly thrilled me for two reasons. First of all, I love the idea of taking online community off-line into the "real" world. What an interesting way to connect with strangers who share at least one common bond (reading the same blog). The concept is fairly simple: Create a batch of handmade postcards using your medium of choice, mail them out to the 11 people on your list, and receive 11 little works of art in return.

The second reason I was excited about this is that I needed an art project to jump start me. I've mentioned before that I started dabbling with watercolours earlier this summer. I'm sad to say that I've only painted once since the class ended over a month ago. I want to paint and try new art forms (at this point, most art forms are new to me), but I never seem to get around to it.

I think about it a lot. But it just seems like such a hassle. I have to work on the dining room table, which means I need to put the kits in an upstairs bedroom, otherwise they'd be covered in paint and glitter . (Okay, I don't actually have glitter. Should I get glitter?) I tell myself that it'd be so much easier to paint and create if I had an art station in my office. That way I could make a mess and not clean it up if I didn't finish a project in one sitting. "If only I had a studio," I tell myself, "I'd create more."

But the real truth of the matter is that I'm scared. When I first started painting, I had no visions in my head of what I wanted to do. But very quickly -- surprisingly quickly, in fact -- I started to have ideas and inklings about what I'd like to see happen on the page. But I'm new. So new that I often don't have a clue about how to achieve my vision. I don't even know what materials to use. Heck, I don't even know what materials are available. I'm pretty sure that some of my visions aren't suited to watercolour, but I don't know what I need.

All I know is that I'm supposed to mail out 11 hand-made postcards in two weeks. And I don't want the recipients to be disappointed. As I fretted over this a few nights ago, a poem came to me, just a few lines long, but perfect and complete. I haven't written poetry in years and was surprised by its appearance. I'm taking it as a gift that I can use to anchor my vision for the postcard. At least I have a starting point now.

I'll share it -- and the postcards -- with you after everything is mailed out. In the meantime, tell me, how do you get your own artist to come out and play?

British Invasion

I hate reading blog posts that start out, "Sorry I haven't been posting for awhile..."

So let's just pretend I have been posting for the past week, shall we?

My touchy sinuses finally decided to develop into full-blown infection on Wednesday and I panicked. After all, I'm scheduled to be in Chicago for BlogHer starting next Thursday. I can't be sick! Knowing how these things go with me (sinus infections, not conferences), I called the doctor and managed to get an appointment and an antibiotic that day. I still have a throaty voice that sounds like a muffled Tara Reid impression, and just taking a shower makes me tired, but my daily activities are no longer limited to sitting on the couch being a mouth-breather. Sure, my eyes feel like they might pop out of their sockets from time to time when I blow my nose. But at least my sinuses no longer feel like they're jam-packed with Nargles while a Dementor sucks the lifeblood out of them. (Yes, I saw the latest Harry Potter movie. No, I have not purchased the newest book yet.)

I know that antibiotics are overly-prescribed, and that this is a dangerous thing resulting in superbugs that may one day consume civilization. And I know that there's no cure for the common cold. But the thing is, in my family, we don't get the common cold. We get knock-down-drag-out, kick-you-on-your-ass colds. Or infections. Or whatever. Call it what you will. We get sick and we don't get better until you give us the drugs.

My brother and I have been this way since childhood. One year I missed so much school that I needed notes from my doctor for every single absence in order to be allowed to go to the next grade. Apparently my straight-A's counted less than my attendance. My dad got a sinus infection over a month ago and is just now getting back to full strength. And that's after he took 10 days worth of antibiotics. In my family, we don't get "just a little cold" or "the sniffles." We don't even understand what people mean when they say that. Instead, we get head-throbbing sinus pressure, sore throats that render us mute, and mind-numbing lethargy worthy of mononucleosis. With the possible exception of my mom, who has an extremely high pain threshold, the work ethic of a Protestant, and the guilt complex of a Catholic, "colds" kick the crap out of us and put us out of commission for days on end.

Given this history, it was imperative that I get on an antibiotic at the first sign of illness. And it worked! Instead of spending a week and a half in a fog, I'm coming out from the haze after just five days.

But even I know that there are some things antibiotics really don't help. Like the time I had the stomach flu in England. I was about three months into my one-year stint as a volunteer with a London YMCA, and I had just discovered polenta. A young Australian couple from church introduced it to me over dinner one night. I thought it was great stuff. So I went out and bought me some. Unfortunately, it was the last thing I ate before I came down with the most wicked stomach flu of my life. At first I thought it was the polenta. Then I realized it was a plague from hell.

During my time in England, I lived in the YMCA where I worked. (And yes, there are least a dozen stories to go along with that!) But when I got the flu I was staying in my friend's flat next door while she was in Hong Kong for six weeks. I thank the Queen Mum that I was living there when that damn British bug colonized my Yankee body. Because the bathroom, instead of being at the opposite end of a long hallway, was adjacent to the flat's bedroom. When you sleep for 12 hours at a time and only get up to be sick and moan, you want a bathroom as close to you as possible. You don't want to walk past 10 other rooms to a shared toilet. I like to do my retching in private, thank you very much.

But when you're sick in a foreign country, privacy can begin to feel like isolation. I think I called my mom and literally cried that I wanted my mommy. Still, people were kind to me. My boss stopped by to see if I needed anything. The motherly Scottish woman from HR, who also happened to be the wife of the YMCA's CEO, brought me juice (probably Ribena), crackers, Lemsip, and Paracetamol. When she asked what else I needed, I faced the embarrassing task of finding a delicate way to explain that my bum was sore from repeated trips to the bathroom. How do you ask a near-stranger and co-worker for butt cream? I think I hemmed and hawed, dancing around the topic, saying things like: "Well, I've been using the toilet a lot... and, well, I'm a bit sore... Is there maybe something for that? A cream or salve, perhaps?"

A note on the word toilet. Here in the U.S., it sounds crude to say "I've been using the toilet a lot." And if I had to "go" while at someone's house, I certainly wouldn't ask, "Where's the toilet?" But in the U.K., that's completely fine. I was originally hoping to get to use the term "water closet" or "W.C." while in England, but I think it may be a bit old fashioned and didn't really hear it used much.

In the end, I made it through my bout of the English flu. But now, 10 years later, I can't even smell polenta without feeling sick and practically running to the bathroom.

My First Night as a ΘΑΠ (5th 1st)

[Part of the Five Firsts series and winner of the reader's poll.]

I bought an SUV last week. Which makes me feel very much like I did when I joined a sorority in college.

After years of railing against the evils of both SUVs and the Greek system, I found myself awkwardly drawn to the objects of my scorn. It's an uncomfortable feeling.

Even my explanations (excuses? justifications?) sound similar:

It's a Toyota RAV4, so it's small! And it has good gas mileage for an SUV -- almost as good as Toyota's hybrid SUV. I was tired of being the smallest thing on the road and not being able to fit anything in my little coup. Plus, the RAV4 is the safest vehicle in its class and it'll go great in the snow!

It's a really interesting group of women! They're not like your typical sorority girls at all! I know that I used to make fun of the whole idea. It's not like I'm using them to replace my current friends. I just felt like this was something I should do!

I felt the same way, to a lesser degree, when I started liking sweet potatoes and corn chowder. I had allowed dislikes such as these to define me. I mean come on: sweet potatoes and chowder? I was afraid that any deviation would make me look like a poseur. Like I had just pretended not to like Thanksgiving yams. I often imagine that if I decide to have a child, I will feel compelled to make the same sort of embarrassed, groveling statements, like "I was on the pill -- I don't know what happened!" I've spent so much time saying that I don't want children, or at least don't know if I want them, that I'm afraid I'll look like a fraud if I change my mind. What will people think? I wonder. And then: Why do I care? (And then: Who puts chowder and child bearing in the same category?)
-----------------------------------------------
My first night as a sorority girl was surreal and embarrassing. After finding an invitation to join the sorority of my choice slipped under my door, I went to the gym for a ritual known as "table pounding." Each sorority had a small, round table covered in its "colors." We newbies, affectionately known as "pledges," gathered with our sisters-to-be around our respective tables and expressed our loyalty and jubilation with various cheers, chants, songs, and much pounding on said tables. And of course, we were all decked out in shirts showing off our new affiliation. Then the real fun began. We set out for a campus tour that included more cheering and chanting.

Back in my days as an "independent" (a status I still proudly maintain politically), my other indie friends and I would use this night to mock the silly girls who paid to have friends. None of us were really the cheerleading type, and this was waaay to perky for us. But now here I was, clapping and shouting, declaring my allegiance to Theta Alpha Pi:

T-H-E-T-A!

A-L-P-H-A!

Theta Alpha!

Theta Alpha!

Theta Alpha Pi!

When I finally came back to my room after my public humiliation, I found the wall next to my door covered in handmade welcome signs and my desk buried in a mountain of burgundy and grey. Each active ΘΑΠ sister had welcomed me with a sign and a gift. There were candles, notebooks, mugs, mason jars, shot glasses, and stuffed rabbits (our mascot). The sisters who weren't at table pounding were responsible for setting up these bizarre altars for each new pledge. Jess, my roommate, was horrified. "All those damn bunnies!" she remembers with a shudder. Keep in mind, this is the same girl who once held a mock "toilet pounding" for her fake sorority called Guava Guava Guava.

When I first started thinking about joining a sorority during my junior year, I kept it to myself. Here's what I wrote in my journal at the time:

27 October 1996
I have just attended the informational meeting for Spring Rush. I told no one that I was going, except hinting at it the other day to D. B and M both saw me on my way there. I told them I was going to pray when asked where I was headed. This wasn't a complete lie ~ I did pray and I did plan on coming to the Chapel afterwards. So here I am on the front Chapel steps.

I was extremely nervous ~ to the point of sick-to-my-stomach ~ before I went. I think I shook through the first half of the meeting. Thankfully C. go there at the same time that I did. 'Twas good to see a familiar face. I commented to her that I couldn't believe that I was there. She said that she was surprised too, because I "didn't look like the type to rush." Am I the type? What in tarnation is "the type"? No, I am indeed no stereotype. What am I doing?

Not looking like "the type" has come up more than once in my life. When I dated my husband back in high school, another black guy looked me up and down in the lunch line one day and said, "You and Simpson, huh? I wouldn't have thought you were the type." That's me -- breaking down barriers, baby.

But if I wasn't perceived as the type to date outside of my race, I certainly wasn't considered the type to join a sorority. I was terrified to tell my friends. Just the previous year, a close friend (the "M" above) had confessed that she'd considered rushing. We were all so relieved when she told us after the fact that she'd ruled against it. No one was more vocal about the idiocy of the Greek system than I had been. No one, that is, except Jess.

Telling her was the hardest. I sat her down one evening on my bottom bunk and said something dramatic like, "You know I love you, right? And remember how you said that we'll always be friends?"

"Yeeessss..."

Loooong pause.

"Well, I'm rushing."

Her response was so anticlimactic that I almost felt disappointed instead of relieved: "Oh. Is that all?" she said.

"Is that all?" I wanted to shout. "Is that all? What do you mean 'Is that all?' I'm thinking about joining a sorority. Don't you want to tell me how ridiculous this is?"

Because even though I knew this was something I wanted to try, it did feel ridiculous. The idea was so far removed from my reality that I feared I was going through a pre-quarter-life crisis. Why did I want to do this? I asked myself that question a lot.

The real reason I considered "going Greek" will sound ridiculous to some people: I felt like God was asking me to join.

Yes, I had come to the point of "table pounding" on a mission from God.

Seriously.

Sort of.

I'd spent the previous summer at the Ocean City Beach Project, which I like to describe as MTV's Real World for Christians: less hot tub debauchery and more Bible study. During that time I realized that everything I did and everyone I hung out with was Christian. This had been a blessing for my first two years at Grove City. At age 16, my new-found faith had alienated many of my friends and was partially responsible for destroying the long distance relationship with the apparent love of my life. (The fact that he was 21 and in the Air Force is neither here nor there.)

By my senior year of high school I was depressed, and terrified that college would be four more years of being misunderstood, ostracized, and lonely. But after a few shaky months, I found my footing, including wonderful friends and people who "got" me for the first time in my life. And it was perfectly fine to believe in God there. I was finally happy. In a melancholy English major kind of way.

After spending the summer learning about being a student-leader at OCBP, I came to my junior year of college with a new perspective. I wondered if I was too insulated in an artificial all-Christian environment. I felt like it was time to branch out. And it occurred to me: If I was so opposed to the Greek system, why not become a part of it? That way I could better understand it and try to be a force of positive change.

Why was I so against sororities in the first place? I suppose they seemed like a hotbed of debauchery on my quaint little Christian campus. And beyond that, they just seemed so stupid. I couldn't understand the point of them. I've never been very good at organized groups. I love Jesus, but don't like church. I'm glad to live in America, but don't understand the veneration of our flag or rabid patriotism. And school spirit? Assemblies and pep rallies were only cool because you got out of class early. (Althought I was in the marching band for six years. Go figure.)

I agonized over why I suddenly wanted to join such a group. Was this really a calling from God, or did I just want to do something "cool" for once in my life? Here's how I summed it up at the time:

4 October 1996
There is a twisted part of me that wants to pledge. I like to think that my reasoning is to bring Christ to a group that needs Him. However, if I'm honest with myself, I would like to be part of a sorority to satisfy this desire to "belong." But realistically, as a Christian, I doubt that I would find a lot of "belonging" to the sorority as a whole.

Looking back, it's easy to think that I really was searching for something. Three of my friends, including two of my very best, were planning weddings for the next summer. My other best friend and roommate was graduating. Several others were studying abroad. Everything was changing, and I didn't know how I fit into any of it. Here's what I wrote at the time:

27 October 1996
Am I doing this because I feel stagnant? With all of these friends having adventures in foreign lands and others getting engaged, I feel like I need to do something! I feel empty because I'm not giving anything. But a sorority... Do I want to go in that direction?

By the beginning of spring semester, I'd (mostly) made up my mind:

27 January 1998
...I think I'm fairly sure that I want to pledge. Just when I felt secure in the decision to pledge, all these doubts and questions crept in. So now I have all these voices yelling at me trying to confuse me. Like what will others think of me? M showed me how selfish of an attitude that is. By focusing on others' opinions of me, I'm really just selfishly thinking about myself.

Less than a month later:

9 February 1997
I'm a ΘΑΠ girl. How odd. I signed a bid. They sent me a bid. I'm in. Weird.

10 February 1997
So. Officially, I don't consider myself Greek. But I guess I technically am. Table pounding is tonite at 6:00. That's in a little over two hours. The reality of being in a sorority has definitely not hit me yet. I wonder if I'll like it. I'm excited about it. And I'm surprised that I'm excited. I swore I'd never pledge (at the very least, it was an unspoken, underlying vow). But now I'm at the start of Pledge Week. I haven't signed my life away. People still drop out during or after Pledge Week. I don't think I will. ... If nothing else, perhaps this will be good fodder for writing. I hope, though, that it comes out to be more than that.

Being in a sorority, especially ΘΑΠ, introduced me to new and wonderful people, and reaffirmed my belief that books and covers don't always match. I remember the first time I met my future sorority sisters. I looked around and wondered how on earth these women were in the same room, let alone members of the same group. There were the soccer players, the drinkers, the intellectuals, the artists, the pretty girls, the slightly punk, and the ultra-conservative Christians. Other sororities on campus had individual group images. This one had a bunch of individuals.

I made new friends. I did new things. And yes, I even talked about God and my faith with some of the girls, but only when they came to me with questions or a prayer request. I wasn't so delusional to think that I was there to "save" them all. I certainly wasn't the only Christian in the sorority. Looking back, I may have been just a tad too concerned with the perceived immorality of it all. Most people tend to get more conservative as they age. I've gone in the opposite direction.

Even now, being in a sorority feels foreign to me. I never fully got into the idea of "sisterhood." I've lost touch with all of them, even the ones I came to consider good friends and wish I could find again. The whole experience feels more like a story someone told me, rather than something I did. But I did it. And I don't regret it. If nothing else, it's good fodder for writing, right?

Oh, and the RAV4? As soon as I get over my guilt about being a gas-guzzling American I'll be fine.

Bonus First!

Because you've all been so patient waiting for the stories of my days as a Greek-letter wearing hottie and my sweet dance moves in fifth grade, here's a little bonus first story.

Bonus First: My first bra.

By the time I was in fifth grade, someone (my mom? me?) decided that I should get my first bra. I have no idea why this is so. Because I distinctly remember Heidi Nichols making fun of me in sixth grade (a full year later) about barely having a "fingerful," let alone a "handful." Then again, people also made fun of my nose in middle school, and I seem to have grown into that!

So. Mom and I are at the mall for a bra. I'm sure we shopped at JCPenney or Sears. I remember nothing about the whole experience except what my dad said when he picked us up. I guess he wanted to show that he had some relevance to the world of his 12-year-old daughter. Instead, he made me want to die of embarrassment.

Dad smiled encouragingly at me and said lightly, "Feels just like wearing a small undershirt, doesn't it?"

The question in my mind now, 19 years later, is: How would he know?

I swear to you: My father is not a creepy guy. He's just a guy. And a McGuiggan. Which means that weirdly inappropriate things come out of his mouth with the best and most innocent of intentions. I may not be a guy, but I'm most definitely a McGuiggan. And if I ever have kids I'm sure I will horrify them with my words. I'm sure I've horrified friends and family my own age. I once said the following to a girl in college, not realizing that it might sound insulting: "Did you say something as stupid as I think you just said?" The weird part is that she didn't even seem to get mad.

But back to the bra. If only my dad had had this resource to consult when I was young: http://www.myfirstbra.us/. (Apparently http://www.myfirstbra.net/ was already taken.) Then he would have known that, "For a young girl, a bra is more than an article of clothing, more than a necessity; her bra is her symbol of maturity and growth, an item of fantasy." Yes, an item of fantasy. Exactly. It's not a small undershirt, it's an item of fantasy! In comparison, I'd say that my dad was considerably less creepy than that website.

Go ahead -- Tell me about your first little undershirt in the comments!

Or if you're desperate for more of my firsts, go read the other four.