I am in the midst of moving back to the West despite protests and claims of "we'll never see you again" by my immediate family.
Currently, I am calling Burlington my place of residence, but it's not my home. Church Street and the environs are great, but this is the first time I've moved to a new city and felt absolutely no connection. The bitter cold that rushes off the towers of ice along the waters that make up Lake Champlain tears through me, and seeps into my bones. I'm told that one bad season makes-up for the remaining three; however, I don't need someone to tell me what I already know.
I am a Northwest girl. Plain and simple. I was born on the wrong coast; the Pacific Northwest with its geographic ingenuity intrigues me as it wraps its evergreens around me and the deep blue Pacific calls me to come back.
I can't explain it; however, I have to come to realize that home isn't necessarily where you were born or where you grew up. Home isn't where you hang your hat; home is where your heart and soul mingle peacefully with your mind. Home is where routine is anything but, and the simple act of getting the paper and sugar cookies from the bakery is something to look forward to.
Since I was a child, I've been restless. My wanderlust has taken me to many beautiful areas of this country, but I am grounded in one place. Of course, when I move back there, it won't be the same---so many things have changed; some for the better and some for the worse. My heart was broken and the pieces left no longer fit together seamlessly, but finding the glue to at least join them together again will seem more fitting in a place that knew me before I was born.
Moving away from family and friends doesn't mean you love them any less; in fact, I think it makes you love them even more because you appreciate them more and forget about the "little things" that cause petty arguments.
I have another journey ahead of me, and I hope it is the last. Within the next 6-8 months, I will drive more than 2,400 miles to Portland alone with just the memories of the route Sam and I took together to begin a time in our lives that was simply wonderful.
Eight years later, it will just be me and one of the three dogs we once shared. I'm sure I'll shed many tears stopping by the places we shared (the beef jerky place in Wyoming; the non-stop rush-hour traffic in Chicago; and the Portland skyline coming into view).
However, once I get there, I know I won't lose any more sleep knowing I'm going back home.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
A Tale of Two Undies
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Sure, this is the opening sentence to the classic "A Tale of Two Cities" by that magnificent writer, Charles Dickens, but it may as well be the words of a woman reminiscing about her period.
(Men, you may want to stop reading at this point, as this post is strictly about menstruation. Period. Or, if you care to learn more, let's press on...)
You see, women don't want to admit it, but as pre-pubescent girls some of us yearned for boobs and Maxi pads. When you got your period (not like getting a cold, of course) and when your grandmother grabbed your hands, held them up, and said, "Patty, she's developed," you knew you gained entrance into a secret club. A club little girls knew nothing of and little boys could not join.
Of course, there was nothing in the contract about the possibility of getting pregnant, the ruined Italian silk underwear because you forgot you were due a visit from Aunt Flow, or the myriad of symptoms we experience (but none of us experience equally).
All of that stuff aside, I am taking this post to speak my mind about a phenomena of the female mindset in relation to her delicate wear.
That is, the tale of two undies.
None of us will admit in it public. But all of us know, behind closed doors, a secret lurks in the top drawer of our dressers. That secret is the collection of the "good" underwear and the "bad" underwear.
Now, I'm not talking about the split-crotch, fire-engine red panties you wear for your partner (along with the zirconia-studded pasties behind the alumnae sweatshirt in Drawer 3) and the Granny panties you wear on your fat days.
I'm talking about the period panties ("bad" underwear) and the other panties ("good" underwear). The period panties are the ones you wear when you have your period (obviously). The good and bad panties are collectively referred to as the good (let's have sex...later after Grey's Anatomy), the bad (let's have sex...now, and don't keep me waiting, stud), and the bloody.
They may also have holes in them, be adorned with (insert cartoon character name) images, or have a few mystery spots (I won't even delve into that topic).
It's no coincidence the bad underwear are put in the corner. ;^)
The other panties comprise sexy panties, I-feel-fat-panties, go-to-the-gym-and-have-no-line-panties, cotton panties, silk panties, and panties panties. We don't need to talk about those because they're not as interesting.
Why do we subject ourselves to such bad underwear during a few days of the month? We know that if we're doing laundry at the laundromat (or even at home), we crumple those babies up so no one can see how truly deplorable they are. Heck, you offered them to the church for the clothing drive for women in third-world countries and they started a monthly collection to get YOUR sorry ass underwear. (And that wasn't the church ladies...it was the ladies in the third-world countries.)
Our partners ask us why they heck we "...keep those zebra undies with the hole in the ass?" Um, for the same reason you keep the boxers with the air conditioning in the crotch.
I'm telling you ladies, let's start a revolution. Let's wear sexy underwear (doesn't have to be split-crotch, you can get Victoria's Secret bikinis) during those days we don't feel so sexy. Heck, it doesn't even have to be during our periods.
I also propose "Wear sexy underwear every day."
Let's take better care of our bodies by showering more, keeping it high and tight, and practicing regular, ahem, changes.
So, tomorrow, reach into that back corner and toss those rags away. Pull-up a pair of Victoria's Secrets Angels and walk the walk with a little spring in your step and the knowledge you've got a sexy secret underneath your pants.
(Men, you may want to stop reading at this point, as this post is strictly about menstruation. Period. Or, if you care to learn more, let's press on...)
You see, women don't want to admit it, but as pre-pubescent girls some of us yearned for boobs and Maxi pads. When you got your period (not like getting a cold, of course) and when your grandmother grabbed your hands, held them up, and said, "Patty, she's developed," you knew you gained entrance into a secret club. A club little girls knew nothing of and little boys could not join.
Of course, there was nothing in the contract about the possibility of getting pregnant, the ruined Italian silk underwear because you forgot you were due a visit from Aunt Flow, or the myriad of symptoms we experience (but none of us experience equally).
All of that stuff aside, I am taking this post to speak my mind about a phenomena of the female mindset in relation to her delicate wear.
That is, the tale of two undies.
None of us will admit in it public. But all of us know, behind closed doors, a secret lurks in the top drawer of our dressers. That secret is the collection of the "good" underwear and the "bad" underwear.
Now, I'm not talking about the split-crotch, fire-engine red panties you wear for your partner (along with the zirconia-studded pasties behind the alumnae sweatshirt in Drawer 3) and the Granny panties you wear on your fat days.
I'm talking about the period panties ("bad" underwear) and the other panties ("good" underwear). The period panties are the ones you wear when you have your period (obviously). The good and bad panties are collectively referred to as the good (let's have sex...later after Grey's Anatomy), the bad (let's have sex...now, and don't keep me waiting, stud), and the bloody.
They may also have holes in them, be adorned with (insert cartoon character name) images, or have a few mystery spots (I won't even delve into that topic).
It's no coincidence the bad underwear are put in the corner. ;^)
The other panties comprise sexy panties, I-feel-fat-panties, go-to-the-gym-and-have-no-line-panties, cotton panties, silk panties, and panties panties. We don't need to talk about those because they're not as interesting.
Why do we subject ourselves to such bad underwear during a few days of the month? We know that if we're doing laundry at the laundromat (or even at home), we crumple those babies up so no one can see how truly deplorable they are. Heck, you offered them to the church for the clothing drive for women in third-world countries and they started a monthly collection to get YOUR sorry ass underwear. (And that wasn't the church ladies...it was the ladies in the third-world countries.)
Our partners ask us why they heck we "...keep those zebra undies with the hole in the ass?" Um, for the same reason you keep the boxers with the air conditioning in the crotch.
I'm telling you ladies, let's start a revolution. Let's wear sexy underwear (doesn't have to be split-crotch, you can get Victoria's Secret bikinis) during those days we don't feel so sexy. Heck, it doesn't even have to be during our periods.
I also propose "Wear sexy underwear every day."
Let's take better care of our bodies by showering more, keeping it high and tight, and practicing regular, ahem, changes.
So, tomorrow, reach into that back corner and toss those rags away. Pull-up a pair of Victoria's Secrets Angels and walk the walk with a little spring in your step and the knowledge you've got a sexy secret underneath your pants.
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