Brilliant … But Bouncy

She Never Learned The Golden Rule.

Here is another college application essay I wrote as a “sample” for Shane – based on my real-life experience:

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While riding the bus to school one morning, my friend Frances asked if I did my English homework. Ever the conscientious student I replied, “Of course!”

The homework assignment was particularly fun. We’d read Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll the day before and our assignment was to put actual words into the poem in place of Carroll’s nonsensical words. I’d chosen the perfect logical word for every instance of silliness.

So I beamed with pride when Frances asked to see my homework. She read it as we rode, and gave it back to me when we got off the bus.

Two days later, Frances and I were summoned to stay after class. Our English teacher said that our homework assignments were identical. Unlike a math paper where there’s only one set of answers, Mrs. Wilson explained that this was an unexpected discovery.

I looked at Frances, suddenly realizing that she’d copied my assignment verbatim. She was staring hard at the ground.

I turned to Mrs. Wilson. “I didn’t know she was going to copy my paper,” I stammered. “She asked to see it on the bus but I didn’t know she’d do that.”

“Frances?”

“I did my own paper,” said Frances, still studying the floor.

There was an unbearable pause as the first bell rang, alerting us that we were both going to be late for class if we didn’t leave immediately.

“I guess I have no choice,” said Mrs. Wilson. “Since I don’t know which one of you wrote the original paper, I am going to have to give you both a failing grade.”

Tears sprung to my eyes. I’d worked hard on that paper and this felt entirely unfair. But I was a quiet child, and Frances was supposed to be my friend, so I choked back the tears and nodded.

Naively, I continued to trust Frances. I was new in town and didn’t know her well, but she rode bikes with me in the summertime and she lived on a farm and I thought we’d remain close forever. I didn’t realize she’d later have sex with my boyfriend, get pregnant at 17, and live out her years in that tiny town. It’s likely that she never learned The Golden Rule, which was my internal mantra.

Instead of learning to distrust people, instead I felt pained because that incident was the low point in my academic career, when it should have been a high point. I love to write; I loved choosing each word to “fix” Jabberwocky into a strong, solid, meaningful poem. I loved doing it so much that even after The Great Homework Incident of ’78, I wrote a brand new version of Jabberwocky. This time I used my own nonsensical words, creating a third version of the classic poem with somewhat flimsier words that made different points entirely.

I just loved words. And I got a failing grade after working with words. This reminded me not only to keep my work to myself until after it was graded, but that I cherished writing every bit as much in ninth grade as I did when my fourth grade teacher first asked us to keep a weekly journal. So I hope to keep writing for as long as I possibly can.

Meanwhile, I moved away from Frances and the tiny town. But as I’ve aged, once in awhile, I’ve gone galumphing back.

Everything Had To Be Perfect.

Shane recently started working on his college essay – but he wasn’t happy with his initial results. I told him, “Just tell a story of something that was meaningful to you.” And then, like any insanely obsessed mother, I wrote several essays of my own – based on real examples from my own life – to show him what I meant.

Fortunately, each of these essays is just the right length for a blog post – so I am posting them all here. God knows Shane doesn’t need them! Thanks for reading.

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My favorite hobby is unlikely to be shared by anyone else applying to college. Sure, I’m a voracious reader and especially enjoy books about dogs. I walk my own dog frequently. I play softball and tennis and I love to swim across the bottom of the pool while counting the seconds to see how long I can hold my breath (53 seconds) and listening to AC/DC through headphones gives me an unbelievable thrill. But my favorite hobby is: bulletin board changing.

Surprisingly, some people will not know that bulletin board changing can even be classified as a hobby. However, I guarantee that I have spent more time on changing the photos on my bulletin board than I’ve spent floating across the bottom of a pool.

It all started when my parents said I couldn’t hang pictures on my walls because using tape on the walls would ruin the paint. So as a gift, they got me a bulletin board. To supplement this gift, I also received subscriptions to Sixteen and Tiger Beat magazines. For the uninitiated, these magazines contain full-page photos of some of the most beautiful celebrities in the world. And those are the photos I use regularly on my bulletin board.

When I was on the yearbook staff, which was my favorite high school club, I learned layout techniques from the publishing world. For example, if the person in a photo faces left, the photo should be placed in a way that allows them to be “looking” toward the center of the publication. This draws the reader’s eye to the center of the yearbook and it makes for a more unified, cohesive look.

So I scoured the magazines and found just the right photos for my bulletin board. Scott Baio’s face with a blue background looked amazing beside Greg Evigan’s orange-enhanced portrait. Leif Garrett’s flowing locks were showcased on the bottom of the board while Parker Stevenson made the top level. Everyone faced inward. This was not as easy a task as it may sound, since I often changed every single picture two, three – even ten times – before I finally settled on the final product.

A few days or a week would go by, and I’d find another photo that was so alluring that I simply had to put it on my board. Changing one photo was never an option; everything had to be perfect. So I would take the bulletin board off the wall on any given Saturday morning, and I would revamp the whole thing, start to finish.

Perhaps Matt Dillon’s brown eyes gazed so deeply into my soul that I used three photos of him, spaced apart so as not to create a cluster. Next to John Travolta’s dimpled chin was a photo of Michael Beihn or Lance Kerwin. And a gorgeous photo of Shaun Cassidy held my gaze long enough to make me tear it from the magazine and put it on that board immediately.

A new issue of Sixteen would arrive the following week, so I’d change out all the actors for rock stars. It was a glorious way to spend another Saturday. I may not be typical, but I do have a sincere desire to enjoy my surroundings in an obsessive but organized fashion.

Today Marks a Different Kind of Freedom.

Dear Shane,

Yesterday you accomplished a wonderful thing: you passed your driving test. Yay! I am so proud of you, so happy for you, and so excited for this chapter in your life! You are a good and careful driver, and I know you will be as safe as possible out there.

And unlike many young people just starting out, you have a car ready and waiting all for you. It’s a wonderful thing to be able to drive yourself around! You can hop in and go wherever you want, and you don’t need anyone to go with you. It’s a well-deserved freedom that you have rightfully earned!

So this morning, I woke up and thought – as I do every day – what do I have to do today? And then I thought, Shane has to work at 2:00. I have to drive him to work and ….

And then I stopped.

Because I do not have to drive you to work. You can drive yourself to work. Which means I have absolutely nothing that I have to do today.

For me, today marks a different kind of freedom. I’ve been driving someone around for 20 years. But I don’t necessarily want this particular freedom. I mean, it’s nice to have nothing to do – but I really, really enjoyed driving you to work. I liked chatting with you on the way. I liked hearing about what you’re planning with your friends, how many followers your Tik Tok videos are getting, what new movies you want to see, what Starbucks drink you might try next.

I like hearing anything you have to say, actually.

So while I believe you deserve your freedom and you can drive yourself anywhere you want to go, I also want you to know that I am still here for you, if you ever need a chauffeur. Or if you just want to chat when you get home, and tell me about the things you’ve done and seen, I sure would like that.

I’m not suggesting that you should feel guilty for growing up, honestly. You have grown into a fine, responsible, mature young man, and I am terrifically proud of you! You should thoroughly and unabashedly enjoy your freedom and love this time in your life.

I’m just suggesting that once in awhile, if you want to stop by and say hello, I’d sure love to talk to you.

Love,

Mom

I Am Not Perfect.

Years ago, I used to use geometric principles (“proofs”) to determine things I wanted to believe. Sometimes, just for fun, I still do. I’m not sure this is what I want to believe, but it was fun to build a “proof” again.

If I have regrets, it’s because I did something I wish I hadn’t done.

If I did something I wish I hadn’t done, I feel guilty.

If I feel guilty, I become angry with myself for my mistakes.

If I become angry at myself for my mistakes, I believe I am not perfect.

If I believe I am not perfect, I punish myself in some self-destructive way.

If I punish myself in some self-destructive way, I hurt myself.

If I hurt myself, I inadvertently hurt the members of my family.

If I inadvertently hurt the members of my family, I feel sorry about what I’ve done.

If I feel sorry about what I’ve done, I have regrets.

THEREFORE: If I have regrets, I have regrets.

I Keep Dredging Up the Past.

More than a year ago, I browsed the internet trying to find Debbie, one of my best friends from college. She and I had laughed uncontrollably for our entire freshman year, but we’d lost touch. I couldn’t remember her married name, so I typed in her maiden name and her husband’s first name, and I hoped for the best.

That’s how I found her obituary. She had died nearly six months prior.

I felt like I had been kicked in the gut. There would be no more laughter, no one with whom I would have that exact connection. No one who would remember those nights where we rolled on the floor in hysterics. She was just gone. It didn’t seem real, and it certainly didn’t seem right.

Then last week, I got a notification on Facebook and there was my high school friend, Paula, and a link to her obituary. Paula and I hung out a lot – at the skating rink, at the pizza place after the rink closed, and at her house where she had two dogs that were so tiny, I thought they were a pair of slippers. We went to Lake Erie together where she taught me to waterski and hang out on the beach every night. And now … she was just gone.

Both Debbie and Paula left my life decades earlier, of course, but it still forced a pause to read their obituaries.

A couple of days later, for the first time in years, I felt compelled to look up an ex-boyfriend. Unlike my female friends, this guy wasn’t my favorite person. He was abrasive and obnoxious and he lied (my least favorite attribute). I just Googled his name, followed by the word “obituary.”

And there he was, looking exactly like he’d always looked, next to his 2020 death notice. Though it didn’t say as much, I imagine this full-time smoker, who had apparently moved to Florida, was a victim of COVID.

On a roll, I then found obituaries for another ex boyfriend, and a dear friend who’d read a poem in my wedding, and my middle school crush.

I’m not sure why I feel compelled to keep looking for obituaries of people who were close to me in my past. I imagine most people just move on, find new friends, ditch the distant past and keep the happy memories. But I keep dredging up the past and adding another, more current layer.

I’m interested not so much in their deaths as finding out what they did with their lives.

I once spent years trying to locate my 4th grade friend. When I finally found her, I messaged that I’d always considered her to be my “best friend” although I hadn’t seen her since 7th grade. When I told her how many times I’d moved since knowing her, she responded, “With that many moves, it makes sense that you would hold on tightly to past relationships.”

Her response to hearing from me was more realistic: she hadn’t thought about me in years, and she wasn’t about to renew a friendship with someone she considered a complete stranger.

I wonder if my need to revisit the past is an effort to find stability in my life. I wonder, “What if I’d still been hanging out with this person? What would that have been like?”

And then I wonder how hanging onto that relationship would have changed me. Because inevitably, my life has moved drastically away from all of them.

And each obituary reminds me to be grateful that my life is still life. Maybe that’s what matters most.

I Hope.

I almost don’t want to write this particular blog post.

For one thing, I know my limited readership is tired of hearing about cicadas. But more importantly, someday I intend to go back and read these posts and I don’t want to be reminded of this.

The cicadas are almost gone now. When I see one now, I am happy – excited, even – to find one that’s moving, still thriving. The once gigantic buzz-roar has dulled to a minimal hum behind the chirping birds. For me, it’s sad that they are gone so quickly.

But on a recent walk, I looked down and saw what I assumed to be a millionth dead cicada. Its left wing was mangled and most of its body was missing. In fact, only part of its head was intact – both eyes, but very little below that. And it had only three legs – two on one side, one on the other – instead of the usual six.

And it was crawling.

In spite of it having no body at all, and in spite of its obviously imminent demise, it was moving. It didn’t look like it wanted to die.

Both Dylan and Shane have an affinity for horror movies, so I have watched more than my share in the past several years. In horror movies, sometimes the villain – or the victim – won’t go down without a fight. Perhaps they’ve been mercilessly knifed a few dozen times with an ice pick, but somehow they are able to pull themselves up with only their arms and drag their bloody bodies across the floor. In the movies, it’s quite literally horrifying – hence the genre name.

In real life, I doubt it happens very often that someone so close to death somehow pulls themselves to safety and/or kills their attacker, ending up saved by an ambulance in just the knick of time.

But I once saw a squirrel lying on the side of the road, not-quite-dead but not able to move. The squirrel was surrounded by ravens who were ready to pick its bones clean while it was still alive, and the squirrel was screaming. It was real-life horror and I had to decide, quickly, to put that squirrel out of its misery with my car. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but I didn’t believe I had a choice. The ravens weren’t going to go away, and dying that way seemed incredibly inhumane.

So when I saw the cicada crawling to nowhere, I wanted to cry. I couldn’t imagine that there wasn’t a bird nearby that wouldn’t put it out of its misery – but I didn’t see one. And I didn’t think crushing it – in spite of the evidence to the contrary – was the right thing to do.

So I picked it up and put it quietly in the grass, to die in peace. I hope.

I don’t know if I did the right thing. I don’t know the right thing. For so much of this time with the cicadas, I’ve felt like I was floundering and alone because “they’re just bugs” and so few people think like me. I didn’t expect to spend a month saving the little creatures, and I didn’t expect to be so saddened by watching so many die, even though I knew what their very short life cycle entails.

I think if I didn’t equate them with humans – with me, and with life itself – I might not be so crazed with loss. But honestly, I can’t see it, or them, or us, any other way.

I Wanted To Choose.

I am planning a vacation. This is exciting not because we are going somewhere great – because we’re not. It’s exciting because I finally have something to plan!

Thanks to the pandemic, I’ve learned that I prefer planning trips to actually taking trips. I have more fun choosing where to go than actually going there. I have more fun finding choices of restaurants than actually eating. I have more fun deciding what activities we might do than actually doing any of those activities. And while I do – quite thoroughly – enjoy every vacation, I can hardly wait to get home and plan another one.

Lately I have noticed that this “prefer-to-plan” attitude also spills over into the rest of my life.

For example, I recently stood in line for nearly an hour for some of my favorite ice cream at Bruster’s. I have some issues with food, of course, which means that sometimes I limit myself to dairy-free ice cream, sugar-free ice cream and (always now) gluten-free ice cream. But on this particular night, given that the line of people waiting masked-up in the parking lot was so long, I decided to just get whatever I want.

I immediately nixed all the flavors with gluten because, really, gluten makes me really sick. “Whatever I want” included not wanting to get sick. So I had to eliminate the flavors with cookie dough, vanilla wafers, pretzels, eclairs, shortcake, brownie bites, sugar cookies, pie crust pieces, cheesecake, Twix, “krispies,” Oreos and graham crackers. Caramel, too, has gluten – so that was out, and caramel is in a lot of flavors.

Taking out the glutenous ice cream left me with about a hundred flavor choices.

Fortunately, I had a ton of time to decide, since the line was a mile long. I stared and stared at the list. I thought and thought about what I wanted. I picked something, then changed my mind, then decided to get two different flavors and decided I didn’t want any of the choices I’d already made. Then I decided on two new options, eliminated both of those, decided on one from my original list and one from my new list, and then remembered that my favorite flavor was my favorite for a reason.

When I finally settled on two flavors – which I now don’t recall – I decided that I liked those flavors so much that I didn’t even require hot fudge. But then when everyone else in the family was getting hot fudge, I wanted hot fudge, too. So I got a little cup of hot fudge on the side.

When we finally settled in the car (socially distancing from the other patrons), I picked up my spoon. My ice cream looked delicious, but I didn’t really want it.

I was very happy with the flavors I’d chosen, and I took several bites. It was tasty. But I was actually happier to eat the hot fudge out of the little cup because, well, I like hot fudge more than anything.

There was nothing wrong with the ice cream, but I didn’t finish it. After an hour deciding what I “wanted,” my work was done. Because what I actually wanted was to pick my favorite flavors. I wanted to choose, but I didn’t really want to eat.

I’m not sure this is the best way to be, but knowing that I am this way makes my life a bit easier. Many people find me to be odd. I’m okay with that, and also I understand it. I like my oddities.

Cars Are My Passion.

Dylan wanted a Lamborghini Aventador at the age of 10. Even then, he knew more about cars than anyone I’d ever met, except possibly his dad. He read car books and researched them on the internet and studied every car he saw on the road. He’s loved cars for half his life.

This year, just before he came home for the summer, Dylan started texting his dad about buying a car. (Dylan did not text me.) Bill and I thought it was a rather silly idea, and hoped he’d forget about it.

After all, he had a car here that’s free for him to drive, and he really doesn’t need a car to get around campus. Dylan had college loans to think about. He didn’t have a job. He surely wouldn’t want to spend his entire life savings in one place. And once he realized how much money it takes to maintain a car, Dylan would stop looking and instead find a car after college.

But that’s not what happened. Dylan continued to scour the internet for cars with cheap prices. Dylan loves to work and he hates to spend, so he had a lot of money saved. He’d worked so much during the pandemic that he could, actually, afford a halfway decent car – which he thought he could get for $3,000.

So we sat down with him and created a realistic budget. We talked about the costs of transferring title and registration, and estimates to get the car to pass inspection, which is essential in Maryland. We discussed the cost of insurance, tires, parking permits, oil changes, maintenance when something breaks, highway toll fees, and the cost if the car crashes and/or needs towing and body work.

Then we talked about his other expenses: college textbooks, loan payback, food for his fridge, restaurant visits, studio and recording costs for his band, concert tickets (a luxury item), parking fees and gas prices – both around town, and from Maryland to Tennessee. And we talked about Dylan’s summer job, which he hadn’t started yet.

Finally, we reiterated that he had a car here at home that he could drive, free, whenever he’s home.

Dylan said, “Cars are my passion. I just really want one that’s all my own.” And we all knew that was the end of the conversation.

Two days later, Dylan found a bright yellow Ford Mustang with slightly over 100,000 miles. Unlike some of the other cars he’d seen, this one had a clean record with a history of regular maintenance. Bill – who is a gearhead in his own right – checked it carefully. He taught Dylan how to find out about a car’s track record on the internet, and how to negotiate a fair price, which they did.

Dylan went to the DMV and got his temporary tags, which took all day. He had the car inspected and found that it needed tires, which were expensive. But it needed little else to pass inspection – a couple of cosmetic fixes, like tag lights and a cosmetic fix to the shifter. Dylan had trouble justifying the (sometimes absurd) expense of fixing those little things, but he wanted a car that was legal so, in the end, he decided it was worthwhile.

His “life savings” has dwindled to a couple of thousand dollars, and Dylan’s recently realized that he won’t be working as much this summer as he did last fall. He won’t be re-earning that money anytime soon.

But Dylan considers his Mustang an investment. And he’s probably right about that – in more ways than one. If nothing else, it’s a learning experience.

It’s Not Your Job To Tell Me How To Live.

Sometimes I lie awake in bed writing imaginary letters – although rarely do I share them with their intended recipient. The following is in response to the woman on my softball team who, after I tried to save a cicada and a little boy killed it, “explained” why I shouldn’t feel unhappy about that incident. This is the letter I wrote to her – in my head.

Dear Teammate,

You said, “Not everyone likes bugs, Kirsten.” You said, “I used to crush things all the time when I was little!”

I didn’t crush things when I was little, and I feel sorry for you that you did. I will continue to save cicadas until the day I die, should the cicadas need me.

I don’t try to force anyone else to like bugs. I didn’t ask you to save cicadas, so why did you continually roll your eyes when I set them into flight?

It’s not your job to tell me how to live. And it’s not your job to “help” me if something happens that I don’t like. I don’t actually need your input on everything I do or say.

It isn’t helpful to negate my feelings. It isn’t helpful to negate anyone’s feelings. Whether or not you agree with my feelings is irrelevant.

But when you followed me into the bathroom and asked, “So if you save bugs, are you pro-life?” …

And I said, “No, I’m pro-choice.” …

You went too far. You invaded a space that was both personal and political and then you pushed your agenda hard.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” you said. “You kill babies, and that’s worse than killing bugs.”

I wanted to scream at you: Being pro-choice doesn’t mean I kill babies! I value every life: plants and trees and bugs and dogs and humans. I can value human life and still believe in choice. Just because you don’t understand how I think doesn’t mean you have a right to try to change it.

But because I have no right to push my agenda on you – I said nothing. Instead, I said, “I understand your point,” because I do. I am the type of person who strives to understand. Then, because I only want peace, I walked away from you.

At the next game, I sat far away from you. I spoke to you only when you spoke to me, and only about sports. Then you moved your chair next to mine, and I heard you whenever you spoke.

At the end of the games, someone announced a new vaccine clinic for anyone who needs a COVID vaccine. I said to a teammate who is unvaccinated: “Did you hear that, David?”

And you responded, even though I wasn’t talking to you.

You said: “Not everyone wants to get a vaccine.”

You are not my parent, my teacher, my mentor or my friend. You are just a teammate. I don’t require your input. I will be civil to you, but I will not want to see you. I will not want to be near you. I don’t care that our viewpoints are different, but I do care that you shove your viewpoints down my throat.

So I am writing this letter to let you know that I don’t appreciate the things you’ve said to me. And I don’t enjoy the fact that you are on my team, because team implies that we are working on something together.

We are just playing ball. You will never be a “team” player, no matter how right you think you are.