Posts tagged with teenagers

November 5, 2009

Bringing Up Baby

I’ve said I would remarry, but really? I think I could be happy as a clam living in sin with my Hotpants lover the rest of my life. The Beatles told us, all you need is love. They didn’t say anything about marriage certificates.

The main reason I’d remarry is, I’d like to have babies and it would be great if they weren’t born of wedlock. But there again, pre-marital baby making is the way in my family. Each of my grown siblings walked the aisle alongside a bride with a baby in her belly; the delivery room staff being very confused when—instead of the standard cry—our little ones were born wailing Mendelssohn’s Wedding March.

Of the unmarried siblings, two of them are teenage boys whose obsessive preoccupation with video games—to the detriment of their hygiene—effectively ensures they will remain sexually pure until one of them takes a break from Halo long enough to google, How do I stop being a virgin? And the last and littlest sibling? Josie Jo is two. She can’t eat a banana without first mashing it down her frontside, so it’ll be awhile before she’s shamefully impregnated.

Are you surprised I have a two-year-old sister? The thing about my father is, outside of having excellent taste in beer and bratwurst, he is Supremely Virile. My dad is 58. He has sired a slew of children (five) over a time span (30 years) in which his mustache has gone from being righteous to ruinous to righteously ironic, in an easy fashion that would put all but TLC’s Duggar crew and their matriarch’s clown car womb to shame. My father’s daughter in so many ways, clearly I’m not living up to my potential on this one.

Even as I lament the failure of my ovaries to produce the surprise pregnancy my birth control pills are successfully preventing, I still have hope for the future. Maybe the far distant future. In one fantasy, sunlight streaming through sheer curtains, a faded flower-patterned tablecloth under our plates, we’re having breakfast. In my hand, a foggy tumbler of Metamucil. In Hänni Jr.’s, a half glass of organic apple juice. Both of us are trying to pass something—for my daughter, it’s time before the bus pulls up to whisk her away to school; for me, the aged matriarch, it’s last night’s Salisbury steak and pureed peas which have become uncomfortably lodged in my increasingly stubborn intestinal tract. Looking up from her bowl of organic raisin bran, Hänni Jr. asks Momma to make her laugh. I take out my dentures, wincing a little at the relaxed suction and sticky bits of adhesive. I grin at Jr. My smile is all wrinkles and mottled pink gums.

I always thought that by this age I’d be a mom—and not just to hairy babies who lick their own butts and subsist on dry kibble (no offense, cats). Blame it on biology and the fact that in three weeks I’ll be 30, but dang it, I’ve got babies on the brain. Not ready to be a bride, maybe I’ll make a baby the way my mom made me, which is by accident. Yes, it might be nice to have something growing inside me … apart from the unease that one day I’ll find Salisbury steak and mushy peas a delicious and desirable supper, that is.

8 comments

November 2, 2009

Love Stories

heartbike
“Do you think you’ll remarry, Hänni?”

“Yes, I think I so,” I said in answer to my inquisitive friend. “If there really is such a thing as ‘The One,’ Andrew is it. Someone once convinced me I was nothing, made me think I was a hard rock. But really? I’m a gem. Andrew knows this about me, that I’m a treasure, and he treats me as such.”

“That’s good,” my friend replied. “And also, I agree. You two are kismet. I can see it in your actions, your laugh, the way you write—you are changed, and I mean that in the best possible way.”

And then together we marveled at the miracle of only having had to kiss very few frogs before I found my handsome prince.

—–
Hot and sloppy, my first kiss was with Ian. I was 16 when I met the boy I’d spend the next three years crawling into bed with … and promptly falling asleep alongside. I’m not sure why we fought our biology, how we resisted the ever-present urge to explore each other fully inside and out, but we never made it past third base. For us, sex stopped at fumbled bra straps and belt buckles. To be sure, ours was not a great love, but it was a first love.

The last day I had with Ian, we drove through California in a stolen car. His father would be angry when he returned the Lincoln, a little worse for wear and with 1000 miles—the driving distance from Seattle to San Francisco—added to the odometer. But we didn’t care. We were young and restless and ripe for adventure. But we were also, despite ourselves, and with college looming in the near future, growing up.

“I think you should go away with me to Ottawa for university,” Ian said, carefully maneuvering through the redwoods that were eons more ancient than he and I were. “I know you’re set on Virginia, but it’s so far way, and it would be difficult for us to stay together … and uh … um …”

There was something desperate in his voice. I felt my guts buckle, and not because the Lincoln trembled as we curved through the forest.

That fall Ian went to Ottawa. I went to Virginia. Within the year we had both lost our virginity, just not to each other.

—–
I was 22, the year we laughed all the way to our wintery retreat about the presents our friends had made for each other. Newly engaged and ready to nest, for Christmas Aaron had gifted his bride-to-be a vanity. Enola, for her groom, had crocheted a quilt. How sappy! we bellowed. Let’s never get married! I roared.

In retrospect, it would’ve been wise to heed my advice, at least as it applied to the boy sitting next to me.

Blake had something unspeakable inside of him, part of me already knew. The too many times I’d cried myself to sleep, it was merely a specter of things to come. Nonetheless, within a few hours I would become Blake’s fiancé; within the year, his bride; before our second anniversary, his betrayed. As I waded through the emotional wreckage of his eventual affair and our ill-fated pairing, I couldn’t help but think our “love” as we had come to understand it—as a test in control and complacency—should’ve met it’s demise years before its dissolution became a legal matter.

—–
29 now, almost 30, in my life’s manuscript, the chapters for first love and worst love have already been written. In two days Andrew and I will celebrate our second year together. We will dine by candlelight. I will wear a pretty dress; he, his shiny shoes. I’m cautiously optimistic. This very new, very precious love? It kind of feels like forever.

4 comments

October 12, 2009

A Letter To Myself Last Monday, From Myself Today

Dearest Hänni,

From time-to-time, things will happen in your life that you don’t like … not even a little … not even one bit. And in those times you will need to screw up your courage. You will need dig deeper, reach further, muster strengths that are as yet unknown.

I tell you these things, because one day (like today), your boyfriend will be channel surfing and he’ll stop on a martial arts movie. He will exclaim that, oh cool, Bloodsport is on! You will exclaim that, um yeah … I prefer we watch something else, anything else … please?

And then your boyfriend will pretend—like a fighter in the no-holds-barred mixed martial arts tournament playing out on TV—his ears have been boxed, and he can’t hear you.

It is at this time darling H, you must go within. You must access your experiences to discover a strategy. As you wade through the cobwebs of your foggy, misty, water-colored memory you’ll be reminded of a simpler time. And that time was when you were 14. You spent the summer at Katie’s house. Katie who was such a good friend, she taught you about white lies. Before that, you didn’t know lies came in colors, or that it was OK to tell them to strangers you’d prank on the phone. Katie who didn’t care it was a Class 1 Misdemeanor to spy in the neighbor’s windows with her father’s binoculars, even though her father—a cop—was the kind of guy who enforced such things. Katie, Katie, Katie, a girl whose passion for action flicks, (particularly the karate kind) could only be eclipsed by that of my current-day counterpart …

Wait, you’ll think. I’ve seen this movie before. I was 14. I absolutely loved it! Well one part at least.

You’ll turn to your boyfriend. “Andrew,” you’ll ask, “when does Jean Claude do the splits in his underwear?”

“Pretty soon, babe” Andrew will reply.

It is then you will learn, the thing you didn’t like … not even a little … not even one bit, is actually pretty awesome. In fact, you’ll think, it’s really very beautiful, a grown man doing the splits, without injuring himself in the process.

Jean Claude won’t shed a tear. But you will.

underpants

JCVD split

Stay classy sister,

xoxoH

11 comments

October 8, 2009

A Letter To My 16-Year-Old Self, From Myself Today

heart letter

Dear sweet, 16-year-old Hänni,

I want you to know, your worries are warranted. You know those suspicions you have—the ones that make you so afraid? The ones that keep you up at night, bartering with a nebulous God, your allegiance for his sweet solace? “Dear Lord,” you pray, “If you give me friends, I’ll be a good Christian, I swear.” And you think you could keep that vow, if only God would answer you in the way you want. That is, if God waved his magic wand and gifted you the perfect partner-in-teenage-crime—someone to trade snack packs with and pass notes to in Mrs. Lawton’s nerdy Honors English class—it would mean you aren’t what you think you are.

It would mean you are just like everybody else you grew up with in that tiny, strip-mall of a town.

It would mean you are not, as you have felt for some time now,
D I F F E R E N T.

That is, all the many small cruelties inflicted by others your age weren’t really acts of rejection, but rather misunderstandings. The jocks who, unprovoked, poured a 2 liter of Pepsi down your neck? Accident. The popular boy who screamed through the halls that you were a bitch because you wouldn’t give him your lunch? Misheard. The girl with the mullet who was your only friend until she decided not to be, she perceived you as so uncool? Case of crossed wires.

Yes, if you had friends, it would mean you belong. Because being different means a lifetime of loneliness in Wasilla, Alaska, that frozen place where you were raised. At least you think that now that you’re 16.

But guess what Hänni? You *are* different. And it’ll take an exchange student interview and a transcontinental flight halfway across the globe to realize it, but you will be changed. And you will feel better.

Because in Japan, that strange foreign country where sushi is a staple, you will meet incredible people who are wayward and feisty, just like you. These square pegs—kids from Vermont, Wisconsin, the Netherlands, and Canada—they will become your best friends … maybe the best friends you’ll ever have.

And you’ll miss them so much. Oh my God, you’ll miss them. The day you stand on a platform, waving goodbye to your best friends, fellow teenage expatriates, Bliss, Justin, Michiel, Anne, and Ian, that will be the first saddest day of your life. Many years later you’ll mention this on a thing called a blog. You’ll do this in hopes that your 16-year-old friends will find you and let you know they are well. You want them to know that you are well too.

Because in the interim between 16 and 29 you will have lots of good times, as you embrace your quirkiness and surround yourself with others who do likewise … but there will be some very hard times as well. The second saddest day of your life—the day you say goodbye to the friend who pledged to love you faithfully til-death-did-you-part, but who bedded another while your heart was still beating, as yet unbroken—that will hurt. But you will survive. You see, Hänni, the most important thing you need to do is learn to love yourself. Once you’ve done that, everything else will fall into place. I promise.

Oh, and one other thing: you should also go ahead and dye your hair purple—If someone doesn’t accept you into their life or program because you have punky-colored locks, then you’re better off without them. Trust me. You will be a published writer, just like you’ve always wanted, and you’ll do it on your own terms.

–keep writing
–keep rocking
–keep wearing rainbow-colored socks

And lastly, dear 16-year-old Hänni, you need stop worrying about growing up. Mostly because, you never will.

xoxoH

8 comments

September 27, 2009

I Went To A Fall Out Boy Show And All I Got Was This Stupid Blog Post

I love The Rock. So it was not strange that a few days ago I attended a Blink 182 + Fall Out Boy show at the Cynthia Woods Mitchell Pavilion. What was strange, however, was that (save for a few morose-looking parental figures), I was twice the age of every other attendee. But I think that age is just a number. It’s your maturity that counts, and for a show aimed at 15-year-olds, I was just right.

Because everyone knows that teens have a short attention span, the show was broken down into four acts. The first act was Asher Roth, but I can’t comment on the performance, mostly because I missed it. People with jobs can’t make it to the suburbs by 6:30 on a weekday. People without jobs—that is, the lazy, unemployed bums that made up the majority of the audience—don’t seem to mind an early start time. They also don’t seem to mind that they live at home with their Mom and that their stupid ironic haircut will be regrettable in a few years.

When I finally made it to the pavilion, my entrance to the lawn area was further delayed by security’s insistence that I remove all dangerous items from my person. And by dangerous items, they meant my cheery, red picnic blanket. Apparently you can totally poke someone’s eye out with a big, fluffy throw. And also apparently—using mad MacGyver-like skills—you can turn said throw into an inocuous scarf, just by tying it around your neck. Security will find this arrangement acceptable. The fashion police, however, will not.

Just in time for the second set, I found a space on the lawn and settled in. At first I thought my neighbors were real a-holes, the 14-year-old to my right, whispering to her boyfriend that Andrew Hotpants and I looked “old.” But when she then qualified “old” as 18, well, I found it in my heart to forgive.

The second act was a band I don’t like very much. They are called the All American Rejects (their name, not mine). The performance was really incongruous, as they sandwiched bad-boy sexual innuendo between sugary-sweet pop songs. At one point Tyson Ritter, the lead singer exclaimed that we did not know how horny we were making him. But actually—if we were to judge based on how many times he jammed the microphone into his crotch—we did. And yes, he was really very horny.

The third band was Fall Out Boy. They really rocked. And they really love Texas. Bassist, Pete Wentz told us so. After revealing a tattoo of the Lone Star State on his left wrist, Pete explained he’d fallen in love with a Texas girl. And I was like “Oh, thank you, Peter. I love you back. Let’s make some babies.” But when I figured out the Texas girl he was referring to was his wife, Dallas-native Ashlee Simpson, I was all like boo hoo hoo hoo. But then FOB played a Journey cover and I was like, I won’t stop believing. I’ll hold onto that feeeeeeeeling—(the one I had back when Pete wanted to be my boyfriend). And I was OK.

The fourth act was fabulous, Blink 182. It was great to hear the hits, and also—from the witty banter between songs—learn interesting things about the band. For example, bassist, Mark Hoppus told us he effed guitarist, Tom DeLonge’s Mom. And then Tom DeLonge told us that Mark Hoppus likes Vicks Vap-O-Rub on his balls.

After Blink’s What’s My Age Again? encore, Andrew and I made a dash for the pavilion exit. And then some hungry teenagers tried to topple me over and eat sandwiches and crudités off the picnic blanket on my chest. All in all, it was a very good night.